The Tide
by Wound Grievous
Summary: Behind the scenes, a great number of mutants got swept up in the flow of change brought on by the arrival of The Cure. These are the private battles missed as Magneto waged his war.
1. The Ripple

_I do not in any way own the X-Men or the characters of Warren Worthington II or Dr. Kavita Rao. I do however own Eric Wasser._

_Thank you, _

_Enjoy._

_--P.

* * *

A cure._

The man on the TV, Worthington-something, says that this is what the world was waiting for, a cure for mutation.

As snow and crackling lines spread across the screen of the old set, the Worthington-something man describes the nature of affliction, of mutation, and how there is now hope. Dr. Kavita Rao herself says a few words, her passion clearly evident in her message of freedom from disease.

Mutation: a disease.

Eric turns off the television set and walks outside. His aunt calls to him briefly but he leaves her in the den, sitting in her chair. In a few minutes he'll help her take her evening bath; he'll tuck her in to bed; he'll kiss her goodnight; he'll respond to her when she calls for him at half-past midnight like she always does.

Eric will go back inside and resume waiting on the woman in a few minutes, but right now, he wants to be alone. He feels strange.

His Aunt Pearl had been sick for as long as Eric could remember. She had always taken her pills, heavy quantities of large, expensive pills, and as a child he'd assumed it was to make her better. A child understands the act of taking medicine and postulates in a child's way that medicine is to make you better. The idea of an incurable disease merely held at bay with endless doses of antivirals is a concept incapable of being understood.

It wasn't until Eric was thirteen and in junior high health class that he realized once and for all what the pills his aunt took everyday were for. He cried until the school called Pearl to come get him, and she spent many hours explaining the nature of her disease, mortality, and how she would not be around forever.

Eric changed a lot that day.

He withdrew from other students, withdrew from activities, withdrew from talking to people he didn't have to talk to. Eric read books; Eric stayed in his room. The day after Eric turned fifteen, Pearl's money ran out. Her HMO wouldn't cover the pills. Treatment stopped.

That was almost two years ago.

Outside, the wind bothers Eric's hair, sending bits of the silky black into his face. He pushes it away. Staring out, his eyes remain unfocused. He's not interested in the setting sun, the clouds, or the bits of the neighborhood visible through the broken slats of the wooden fence. He's thinking about the idea of disease.

He's never considered mutation a disease, and the idea of curing something that is not even considered a disease seems incredibly strange to him.

Pearl has a disease; Pearl has AIDS and will die.

The exposure Eric has had to other mutants extends to what he has seen on television and read in the newspapers, revised textbooks, and the religious pamphlets people leave on the doorstep. He does not know other mutants, he doesn't know what they think about their situation in life.

All Eric knows is that he does not feel sick, and the idea of parting with his gift is an idea that makes him deeply and fundamentally sad.

Why then, he wonders, is there a cure? Who would take it? Who would seek it out? Why would someone part with something as ingrained and basic as their arm or leg?

The way the man on television made it sound, this was mutant salvation from something like death. The way the Rao woman made it sound, mutants everywhere were begging for such a deliverance.

Eric had read nothing and seen nothing in the news about mass mutant protests now or in the past asking for such intervention into their lives.

And where is Pearl's cure? Where is his aunt's cure when people in her position are so desperately seeking deliverance?

A sound behind him makes Eric turn his head. Pearl has opened the door and come outside a step, leaning heavily on her claw-footed cane. Her milky eyes narrow, but he knows she can't see him. She lost her sight months ago.

"You shouldn't exert yourself." Eric says.

"You left." The woman's voice is strained but not scolding. Pearl never wanted to be taken care of, never wanted to have to put her nephew in this position. "I was worried."

"I wouldn't have been out here long. I wouldn't have let something happen."

Pearl moves her mouth into a smile. "I was worried about you, kid."

"Oh." Eric looks back out across the yard. "I'm fine."

"Come back inside, we'll talk."

"I don't want to talk. I'm not sure what to say, really. Talking seems silly in the face of so much that's beyond my control."

"Talking can help us come to terms." Pearl says.

Eric turns and walks slowly back towards the house. "To terms with what?" He begins to guide his aunt back inside.

"To terms with those same things that are beyond our control. The world turns; people live and people die. Some babies are born with terminal disease, some with the ability to cure it with a touch. It's not in our power to understand everything."

Pearl stands by as Eric closes the door behind them and then allows herself to be moved back to her chair. Eric waits until she's seated to speak again. "But I don't understand anything. I don't understand the fear; I don't understand the hate. I don't understand disguising hate as compassion. I don't understand self-loathing…"

"Then you're better off than a lot of people." Pearl breathes, nestling herself in the chair's old overstuffed cushions. The simple act of walking outside has tired her out.

"How?"

"For the moment you're unaffected by the tide."

Eric sighs. "Talking never helps."

"I'm sorry, kid. I know I don't make sense. It all sounds so concrete in my head. It's only after I open my mouth that I hear how crazy I've started to sound."

Eric sits in the smaller chair beside his aunt and reaches out to pat her hand where it rests on her chair arm. "You don't sound crazy."

"I don't want you to worry. Things are probably going to get really bad, but I don't want you to worry. It's going to be ok." Pearl sounds wistful but sure, it makes Eric uncomfortable slightly.

"How do you figure?"

The woman laughs softly and closes her eyes. "Things always end up ok eventually."

Eric nods. "You'll nap and then we'll have your bath?"

"Yes." Pearl nods gently. "A small nap."

"I'll go to my room and read, then?"

Pearl gives an almost imperceptible nod before Eric stands and pads quietly out of the room. The sun continues setting in a way that throws the den into complete shadow.


	2. The Tear

_A huge thank you to everyone that commented on this story. It really meant a lot. I hope you guys like where it goes from here. I've decided to continue writing, but if things get too crazy and I screw it all up, I'll simply delete the chapters and leave it in its original One-Shot form._

_That said, _

_Enjoy._

_--P._

* * *

Eric doesn't know how long he was asleep, but when he wakes up and lifts his face from the uncomfortable position of resting on the open pages of his novel, he remembers where he is. He's in his own room.

Eric remembers Pearl; he'd left her napping in the den.

And then he's suddenly filled with a wave of self-disgust. It's unlike Eric to be so neglectful of the daily routines. Even if something like that horrid press conference put him in such a horrible mood, it's rare for him to be so despondent that he'd forget his aunt.

Eric looks to the clock ; it's past midnight. He's dozed the night away. Pearl missed her supper, she missed her bath, she missed her usual before-bed reading of _People._

"Pearl?" The boy calls as he exits his room and makes his way hastily down the hallway, past the open bathroom door, past the old paintings on the wall, and eventually into the den. It's dark, but a plug-in nightlight on a nearby wall socket adds enough light for Eric to discern shapes. Pearl is still in her chair.

"I'm so sorry," Eric begins arriving beside the chair. He places a hand on his aunt's shoulder, "I fell asleep in my book and lost track of time. Let's get you in your bed. If you're hungry I can bring you some soup."

Pearl doesn't answer.

Eric continues. "Come on, you can't sleep in the chair it's not good for your back."

Pearl doesn't answer.

"Wake up."

It will be several hours before Eric accepts his aunt is gone.

Once he feels the stiffness in her shoulder and the coldness of her skin, he sits down at the foot of her chair and stares up at her body. She's nestled comfortably in the cushions as if she were about to tell him something; just like she was before he left her.

_She'll wake up._ Eric thinks  
_She'll wake up._

In the dim glow of the nightlight, she very well could still be resting. When Eric looks hard, he swears to himself that his aunt's chest rises and falls softly in the dark. She's just stubborn, that's all. She's comfortable. She wants to stay in her chair. Pearl always was, even in sickness, fond of jokes and games. She's faking sleep. She's playing.

Eric wants to shake her again; rouse her. He wants to shake her back to life but doesn't move an inch from his position on the floor. Eric doesn't move except to breathe.

_She'll wake up.  
__Wake up._

Several hours pass.

The boy remains at the foot of his aunt's chair, stiff as a stone. He doesn't cry; he doesn't speak. Eric sits in simple silence, deep in thought. When the sun begins to rise and offer bits of light through the windows, when the birds start to stir and sing, Eric's thought processes shift.

_Why didn't I wake up?  
__Why didn't I stay with her?  
__Why didn't I move her to her bed?  
__Why didn't I keep her from exerting herself?  
__Why didn't I wake up?_

"I'm sorry." He says finally, "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

Eric wants to cry now. The sun is coming up and the room is getting brighter. The nightlight, designed to work only in the dark, flickers once and then shuts off all together. In the stronger light of morning Pearl appears small, maybe sunken, it's clear that her chest is not rising and falling and that in fact she is dead. Her face is peaceful, her eyes closed, but she is clearly gone.

The last bit of vain hope the boy had falls away. Eric wants to cry, but holds his breath until the feeling goes away. He hasn't cried since that day at school four years ago, and he's not going to do it now. Eric _cannot_ do that now. The last thing that needs to happen is a loss of control at such a crucial and terrifying moment in his life.

"What am I supposed to do?"

The birds outside grow louder; the sunlight through the windows, stronger. The sounds of the neighborhood coming to life buzz in the morning ambience. Eric stands.

"I'm sorry." He says again, leaning closer to his aunt's body in the chair. "I love you, Pearl."

Eric kisses his aunt on herhead and walks out of the room.

Before he leaves he'll pack one bag full of clothes and a few trinkets that mean something; a picture, an old note, a necklace, some bauble from somewhere. Everything else in his room is superfluous and means nothing in the long run. He doesn't take anything of Pearl's, save for her theatrically long blue scarf. She never wore it after the pills ran out. There was no reason; she never went outside.

Even though the weather is warm and in no demand for a scarf, Eric wraps it around his neck and pulls it close. It long ago lost the scent of Pearl. It's been hanging in her closet for ages. Despite this, Eric pulls it close and breathes deep. Before he leaves he'll make sure the house is clean.

Before he leaves he'll call 911 because they're the only people he can think to call. There are no other family members. There are no friends. It will be ten minutes before the van arrives to take Pearl away. Eric will be gone.

Before he leaves he'll start to cry. The faucets in the hallway bathroom with creak and the toilet will start to run. The pipes will groan. For a moment he'll lose control and the sinks in the house will start to drip, almost trickle. Eric will dry his eyes and shut the door behind him. Down the street the sprinklers in the neighbors' yard will come on, but that happens normally.

People will think it happens normally.


	3. The Spill

_I in no way own anything X-Men._  
_Please let me know how you think this story is going._

_--P. _

* * *

_"_You realize the process is permanent, correct?" 

"Yes." The Green-Skinned girl answers. "I know."

"How do you feel about that?"

The girl pauses. "What do you mean?"

"How does that make you feel?"

"Oh." The girl looks down at her hands in her lap. "Relieved."

The counselor scribbles something down on her clipboard, not looking up. "And how old are you?"

"I'm fourteen. Is… I mean… do I have to be eighteen or something? Is there an age requirement?"

The counselor looks up the young mutant with an unusually cold stare. "Sadly, no." She returns to her clipboard.

The girl looks timid. "What?"

The woman sighs heavily and rubs the bridge of her nose. She's supposed to keep her personal opinions out of this. That's the most basic part of the job. With one hand she reaches up and pulls at the pin keeping her hair in a tidy bun. In one fluid motion, the woman's hair falls like a shiny yellow curtain. It seems impossibly straight and prim for being up as long as it has.

"I'm sorry." The counselor says. "It's been a long day."

They sit across from one another, shoved into a corner of the crowded clinic lobby. It's been like this since the cure became available to the public. Community clinics have swelled to capacity, forming lines down the street for entrance. It's a slow process. The FDA requires counselors be on hand to interview each mutant, counselors like the near-exhausted Emma Frost.

They call it an examination of mental stability; it's to keep things strictly voluntary.

Most of the counselors aren't properly trained. They're biased against mutants. They don't understand. Several times, Emma's had to turn people away after other counselors waived them through. Early she got into a row with a woman who wanted to force her daughter to take the vaccine. She had to be escorted outside.

"Alright, let's continue shall we? I'm sure you're ready to go home." Emma forces a smile despite herself. "I know I am."

The Green-Skinned Girl looks a little less scared now, and nods affirmatively towards the blonde in front of her.

Emma continues. "What is the full nature of your gift…" She pauses; catches her mistake. "Pardon me, your affliction."

"Just my skin." The girl replies, though her eyes take on a more curious expression.

"Nothing else? Heightened senses? Have you found that you can do things better than your classmates?"

"I'm not in school." The girl states. "I'm green."

Emma sighs again. "I'm sorry, I'm just trying to be…"

The Green-Skinned cuts her off. "Are you a mutant?"

"Excuse me?" Emma looks up from her clipboard again, her eyes showing the same amount of odious coldness as earlier.

"Are you a mutant?" The girl repeats, eyes meeting Emma's.

"I am not allowed to answer that question, and it's quite inappropriate for you to ask. We're done here miss." With a sharp flick of her wrist, Emma tears the bottom off of the paper she was writing on. "Give this slip to the lady at the front desk and she'll escort you to the back. Good luck and have a nice day."

"You said _gift._" The Green-Skinned girl states, taking the slip from the woman before standing up.

"A slip of the tongue. I've been here all day, as I said. Go now."

"Why are you working here?"

Emma stands, smoothing the front of her stark white skirt. "That's none of your concern, dear. Be off with you. You're my last interview for today." She begins walking for the back room. There's an employee lounge back there somewhere--unless of course they've opened it up to fit in more stations for curing--and Emma would like a nice big cup of coffee before she heads home.

The girl follows. "It's not a gift."

Firmly. "Goodbye, little girl."

"How can you call being green a gift?"

Placing her hand against the door to the back of the clinic, Emma turns to give the girl one last look. It's an almost sad expression. "I'm sorry." She says softly.

The girl opens her mouth to speak again, but her eyes quickly glaze, her limbs go slack. Slowly, the green girl turns and jerkily walks to the receptionist counter. Within minutes she's shuttled away into the back.

Emma shakes her head. "It's a gift to be different, darling. I understand it's not easy being green, but it _is_ a gift." She opens the door and continues down the hall, searching for the lounge.

Several cups of coffee later, Emma Frost exit's the clinic via the alley at the back. She declined having an armed security escort because she dislikes guns. Besides, no one could sneak up on her if they wanted to. It's only thirty minutes until the clinic shuts its doors, but still there are people lined up on the street when Emma leaves the alley. Some look fundamentally normal, while others bear spines, strange hair, or disproportionate limbs and features. They'll be there all night, camping on the sidewalk so they can have a spot inside the clinic in the morning. It borders on chaos and police are ever-present.

She gets hit with a full cup of soda.

The cup bounces away, but the liquid splatters over her white coat, trickling down onto her skirt and finally her neat white stockings. It's a mess. Emma stops, too stunned to really do anything else. Someone from the nearby picket line, the same line that moved near the alley just to heckle the nurses as they leave, is yelling something. He's holding a sign that reads _Not Sick! No Cure!_ and he's calling Emma a fascist whore.

Emma is too tired to yell back. This was her favorite skirt. By the time she gets home the stain will have already set. It's ruined. Yelling would only make her look more foolish than she already does. Someone else makes as if to hurl a sandwich, but is quickly stopped by a lone police officer working the barricade of the picket line.

Another person simply doing their job, regardless of how they may personally feel. Emma nods to him in thanks before scurrying on her way, white heels clacking.

A few blocks away she hails a cab and climbs in.

Once seated, moving, and a destination announced, Emma fans a little at her skirt. She knows it's a futile gesture (the fabric is soaked) but it gives her something to do.

"You from the clinic." The cabby asks, noticing Emma's ID badge.

"Yes." She replies.

"Doctor?"

"Yes. Psychologist."

He snorts. "I guess they got you on your way out."

"What?" Emma asks, confused. "Oh, the stain. Yes. Someone threw a soda."

"Seen 'em on the news causing all kinds of shit."

She sighs. "They don't understand."

"It won't matter soon. They'll be fixed and then they won't have anything to complain about, will they?" The man laughs as if his statement were some sort of priceless joke.

"Fixed?" Emma repeats, tone soft but edged like a dagger.

"Yeah. Pretty soon, all the mutants will be de-muted and no one will have to worry. Right?"

"Ignorant son-of-a-bitch…" Emma hisses.

"Whaddidyasay?" The cabby turns his head to look back at Emma.

She narrows her eyes. "You're going to shut up, turn around, keep driving, and when you drop me off you're going to charge me exactly seventeen cents for the trip. Is that understood?" Her voice never raises above that soft daggered edge.

"Understood." The man mumbles, his head snapping back around to lock on the road ahead. The rest of the drive is silent. When Emma arrives home, the cabby requests seventeen cents. Emma pays him, even making it an even twenty.

"For your trouble." She says.

The cabby thanks her and drives away. Once he gets about a block away, he'll wonder where he is and what he was doing before... before what? He'll and notice the meter ran, but he will not remember a customer. He'll look at the clock and discover a twenty minute gap in his memory. He'll also discover that he's soiled himself.

By then, Emma will already be upstairs and in the shower. She'll stand there for an hour or so before the hot water runs out. She'll continue standing for thirty more minutes.

She'll step out and over her ruined skirt left on the tiled floor.

She'll towel off, wash her face, and put on expensive face cream.

She'll wrap up in her white silk nightgown.

She'll skip the news because it's always the same.

She'll read a book before going to be alone.


	4. The Fountain

_Again, I own nothing X-Men. Eric Wasser is mine, though.  
Enjoy, but review if you have the time. Thanks,_

_--P. _

* * *

Sarah sits outside the church. She is conflicted. 

She came with Callisto because they are friends. She came because this meeting concerns their cause. She came because she is a mutant. She came because she has to keep up appearances. In truth, she doesn't want to be anywhere near this church. She doesn't want to be plotting war.

Still, when that old man took the podium, when he gave his speech about genocide, about factions, about fighting, Sarah felt the heat rising in her heart. When he spoke, she felt his passion--mutant passion--to tear the humans apart. The audacity! To think that they presumed mutants needed a cure. "Blasphemy, filth, and lies!" Sarah had shouted.

She is conflicted, none the less.

Callisto is inside with the old man, She'd said he was strong. She'd know. Sarah believes that Callisto knows everything. She prays Callisto doesn't know what she' thinking.

Sarah sits on the church steps. A few other mutants open the massive wooden doors and walk out. Obviously warmongering didn't sit well with them. They're the minority, it seems. Through the doors Sarah can hear the chanting, the shouts, the anti-human sentiment. The fleeing mutants pull up their hoods, button their coats, and pay Sarah no mind. They're gone in minutes; forgotten.

The chanting inside continues.

She must admit, it all sounds so nice. She wishes she could feel that way. She wishes that her hearts were filled with such zeal… but the moment that the news of a cure reached her ears, a seed of doubt was planted inside her, and it grows now, unchecked.

She can't tell Callisto. She wants to, but she knows that she can't tell her. Callisto wouldn't understand. She wouldn't be mean, she wouldn't yell or curse, but she would not understand. Philippa, on the other hand, would call Sarah weak and push her down. She'd start a fight. She'd yell about 'us and them.'

_You're one of us, why do you want to be like them?_

Sarah shakes her head. Callisto and Philippa are pretty. They cannot understand what it's like. Had they not marked themselves with garish tattoos and strange body jewelry, were they not to use their gifts in public, no one would ever know they were different.

Sarah is not afforded that luxury.

It's hot under the hood of her heavy cloak, so Sarah removes it. The fabric catches on one of the heavy bone spikes jutting from her forehead. The hood tears. She sighs and pokes at the exposed bone with a fingertip.

Callisto is gifted with infinite knowledge about the mutants around her and blinding speed; Philippa with the power to move mountains and shake the foundations of the earth. Sarah's metabolism moves at a much higher rate. This makes her fast, reflexive, incredibly durable, and stronger than most mutants. It also makes her bones grow at alarming rates and in seemingly impossible places.

Some of the bones she can grow at will, wrenching them from her elbows and wrists to use as weapons. Some bones grow on their own, painfully pushing themselves out of her head, back, and even her mouth. Without her cloak, people would quickly notice the almost dinosaurian spines and armor, and when people notice that, it's never a good thing.

Callisto calls her Marrow, and Sarah thinks that's ok. However, her grandmother always told her that Sarah was prettiest name a girl could have and that she was a pretty, pretty, girl. Sarah likes the name--her name--because of that one memory.

_It was the old woman's good fortune to die before I changed, _Sarah thinks.

And this is why Sarah--Marrow--is conflicted.

Marrow is angry at the humans, angry at their supposed superiority, angry at their laws, angry at the fact that they can walk around without coats or cloaks, without fear or hatred. She is jealous. She is vengeful. Marrow remembers being ten years old and being abandoned. Marrow remembers being unloved, unwanted, forgotten, and abused. Marrow remembers growing up a mutant. Marrow wants blood. She wants buckets of blood. Marrow wants to walk beside the gray old man, right up the steps of the human capitol, and she wants to tear it down.

Sarah is sad. Sarah is lonely. Sarah remembers what it was like to wear a yellow sundress in the backyard on a spring day. She remembers laughter. She remembers love. Sarah mourns the death of her innocence. Sarah wants children. Sarah wants a husband. Sarah wants a house, a yard, and a little girl who will never, n_ever_, be called ugly. She wants nothing to do with blood, with tears, with bones that once stuck of out of her body being driven into the bodies of other people.

"Are you a mutant?"

She had been so absorbed in her own dilemma, Sarah had missed the boy walking up to her. Now he was inches away and staring directly at her; at her face. White hot anger. She's not wearing her hood and he's staring at her, at her face. He's probably a filthy human and _he's staring! HE HAS NO RIGHT TO STARE!_

Marrow snarls, rises from her seat on the stairs, and wrenches the boy to the ground before he can even think to react. There's a growl and a snap, and she's pressed a bone spike to his throat. The boy looks scared; Marrow looks villainous.

"Give me one good reason not to kill you, you filthy human. Just one reason so I can laugh at it while you die…"

The boy is shaking. "I'm… I'm…" He can't get it out, his voice cracks. His blue eyes are wide and horrorstruck.

"Spit it out!" Marrow roars.

A squeak. "I'm not human!"

The fog clears and Marrow looks around. He's dropped his duffle bag a few feet away, his clothes a torn, he looks hungry… he's a kid, barely over sixteen she'd guess.

Marrow climbs hastily off of the boy and hurls her bone dagger away into the bushes. The boy scrambles a few feet away, distancing himself from the violent woman as she retakes her seat on the church steps, pulling the hood back over her plated brow.

"Sorry." Sarah grumbles from under the fabric. "I… I just don't like people to stare. The meeting's inside, but it's practically over."

The boy dusts himself off, readjusting the long blue scarf around his neck. "It's ok." He says, still eying Sarah warily. "I didn't really come for the meeting."

"Whatever." Sarah breathes. "Just go on."

"I'm sorry I stared at you." The boy offers.

"Whatever."

"I've just… well… I've never met another mutant. I've never seen one. I was curious."

Sarah makes no sound. She's almost gargoyle-like in her silent unmoving position on the church steps, head down, hood obscuring her expression.

The boy continues. "What's your name."

"Look… I'm sorry I pushed you down, but until you came along I was trying to think. So, if you don't mind, get lost. Go inside. There's lots of mutants there. Fun bunch. Go."

Leaving his bag where it fell, the boy climbs the stairs and sits beside the cloaked woman, though still far enough away to allow a retreat if necessary. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing. Beat it!"

"You know, if something is bothering you, talking about it can help."

Sarah scoffs. "How do you figure?"

"We can come to terms with things that are beyond our control, things we can't change."

"Ugh, how trite." She spits. "Besides, _I can_ change it. It's not beyond _my_ control."

The boy scoots closer. "What?"

"Every mutant has two choices… we can go and get 'cured,' be pretty and normal. That, or we can fight, bust some skulls, and take over… but still be ugly." She shakes her head. "I have the power to walk to one of those clinics, get that shot, and be pretty again. I also have the power to walk down to that clinic, tear them up, and show them what I think of their stupid human medicine. I can do both; It's a bitch… this damned indecision."

"You think you're ugly?"

"I am."

The boy shakes head. "No. You're not ugly."

"Oh spare me." Sarah rips her hood off again. "As if you didn't stare enough earlier, look. Look at this face kid. And it's not always this symmetrical. This is a good day. It shifts. It changes. New bones grow and old ones fall off. I'm a goddamned rhino. No one wants to wake up next to this. No one wants to pass this on the street for that matter. Hell, even the other mutants barely want to look at me."

The boy reaches out and touches the woman's shoulder. She flinches before fixing him with an angry look. "What?"

The boy smiles, though it's clear he's still quite scared of the belligerent Sarah. "You're _not_ ugly. At least, I don't think you're ugly. You're the first mutant I've ever met… other than myself. That has to mean something."

"It means your full of shit."

The boy pulls his hand away.

Sarah sighs. "Or, maybe you're just naïve. What's your name, kid?"

"Eric, Eric Wasser. You?"

She pauses for a moment, unsure of what to tell this boy to call her. He's seen Marrow. He met Marrow first. However, he's been reaching out to Sarah now without ever having met her before. She gives him the benefit of the doubt.

"Sarah."

"It's nice to meet you, Sarah."

Standing. "I find that hard to believe." She stretches, popping her back with an almost-too-loud pop. "I'm going back inside. I've bullshitted enough, I think."

"What did you decided?"

"I didn't. I'm just gonna' ride it out, you know?"

Eric nods.

"You got a place, kid?"

Eric's face darkens. "No."

"Well come inside. No sense in dragging that bag around anymore tonight. We'll talk to Callisto and she can probably set you up with a place to stay."

"Callisto?"

Sarah helps Eric to his feet. "My friend." Eric gets his bag.

They'll walk into the church together. Philippa will catch them near the door and gripe about Sarah not listening to the speech. She'll say something about the old man, Magneto, and how he's the general they've been waiting for. She says they'll go to war. Sarah will look uncertainly at the boy beside her and ask for Callisto. She'll find her in a corner talking with the gray haired Magneto. Eric will not stray far from the hem of Sarah's cloak.

Sarah will not interrupt She'll wait patiently nearby as Callisto finishes talking with the man, and come when only her friend motions her over. She'll take off her cloak at Magneto's urging. She'll reveal the curved bone spires extending from her vertebrae, the dagger-like protrusions on her knees and ankles. She'll feel naked.

"You'll never have to hide your beauty again, my dear." Magneto will tell Sarah.

And Marrow will never put her cloak back on.


	5. The Rain

_I don't own X-Men, blah blah...  
I hope you all like how things are going so far. I really didn't expect so many reviews! Thanks to everyone who hasreplied and repeat replied. You guys don't know how that brightens my day. It makes writing this thing all the more fun._

_Enjoy,_

_--P_

* * *

It was just his luck that it would rain.

He hadn't been paying attention to the gathering clouds when he went smashing through the window of his father's building. As he flew out over the city, Warren still didn't pay much mind to the sky above him or the bustle below. The only thing he really gave much thought to at all was how much of a drastic step he had just taken.

He'd turned his back on his father. He'd told one of the most powerful men in America: "No."

But there was no other choice, was there? There was no way his father was just going to let him walk out of that room. There was no way that Dr. Rao was going to let him leave without first jabbing that horrible needle at him. It was do or die; fight or flight.

So Warren flew away. At the last minute, when he was so sure he wanted to part with his wings, Warren broke a window (_I could have cut himself to pieces!_ he thinks now) and flew out over San Francisco like some symbol of mutant liberation.

People below had cheered at him as he flew off. Little they knew that he was no rebel or upstart, merely a boy scared of his father and finally running--or flying--away with everything he had. At the time, so filled with adrenaline, he'd actually wondered why he hadn't taken such a step sooner.

Now, alone, cold, and wet on some building's roof in San Francisco, Warren knows why.

_I'm weak. _He thinks. _Dad was right, I am a freak; I am weak. This is why I can't make it on my own... this is why I can't make it without him._

A voice behind him calls: "Good lord, get in here this instant before you catch pneumonia."

Warren spreads his expansive wings instinctively, but in this downpour flight is impossible.

"Yes, yes, they're lovely. Now tuck those down and come in." The voice calls again.

Looking behind him, Warren sees a man in a dark pink bathrobe with a cat-shaped umbrella standing halfway out of an open skylight.

"I'm just waiting until the rains stops. I'm sorry. I don't want any trouble."

"Pish!" The man chirps. "Rain can last for days. Come inside and out of this wet and I'll make you some tea or something. Come on, now." With that, the man in the pink bathrobe ducks back down into the skylight.

Cautiously, Warren schleps to the edge of the open skylight and peeks inside. Below is a softly lit, nicely furnished apartment, and the bathrobed man holding a large beach towel.

"Do try to hurry, I'd rather not let the whole of the water in my apartment with you."

Warren manages to climb down inside the skylight without bumping his wings too much, and he quickly finds himself being toweled mercilessly.

"Sorry, but you're pretty well soaked, and I…"

"I can do it myself." Warren remarks hesitantly, taking the towel from the man. He doesn't want to appear rude but the stranger was rubbing his feathers in quite an uncomfortable fashion.

"Of course." The man in the bathrobe replies politely, backing away to observe the process.

It's now that Warren gets a proper look at his would-be caretaker. He's not old, but he's not as young as winged mutant himself. His hair is short, well taken care of, brown, and a little damp from the escapades outside the skylight. He has expressive eyes and a pleasant smile.

"I suppose we'll save introductions for the tea." The man says. "What do you take in yours?"

"Uh… I've never taken tea."

"I'll surprise you, then." And with that he's walking around the chestnut colored sofa and off into the kitchenette. The sound of the rain tapping the skylight punctuates the otherwise comfortingly calm apartment. The furniture is sparse but comfortable looking, and the overall ambiance is earth tone. It reminds Warren of a coffee house he visited once.

Despite being entranced by his new surroundings, Warren continues drying himself off. It's a rather arduous task. His body is relatively easy, mind you, Warren not having the time to put on a shirt since his escape. However, his pants and wings are soaked, and the huge feathered appendages are not the easiest things to dry with a beach towel.

A tea kettle sounds, and in minutes the bathrobed man returns to the living room carrying thin white saucers with dainty tea cups. "I figured you'd like it better sweet, so you got the full treatment: honey, sugar, lemon peel…"

"You didn't have to…" Warren begins.

The man in the robe cuts him off with a wave of his hand. His voice reminds Warren of someone he's known forever. Every phrase pitched perfectly and without a hint of possible animosity. "Oh, stuff it. It's not every day that a shirtless angel shows up on my roof. I can spare some tea."

Warren gingerly sips at his tea. It's hot, but not at all unappealing. It quickly makes him forget how cold he was on the roof.

"Here." The robed man says. "Let me go find you some dryer clothes so you can sit down."

"But…"

"Shush!"

The man drifts off into one of the rooms, returning with a pair of pajama pants and an oversized white t-shirt. "It's old, so we can cut some holes in the back for you if you want. Lord knows I won't wear it. Of course, if you want to walk around without your shirt on, you certainly won't find me complaining."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry. I'm sure I must seem like such a terror." He extends a hand, meeting Warren's eyes and smiling broadly. "I'm Christian, but do call me Chris."

"Warren." He shakes the man's hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Warren." Chris motions behind him. "My bedroom is in there. The bathroom is just on the other side if you want to change."

When Warren finishes changing, he comes back into the living room to find Christian sitting at one end of the couch, quietly sipping his tea. Warren's cup is resting on the tiny table at the opposite end of the couch. "I really don't want to be a bother."

Christian looks up. "You're not. It would have bothered me more knowing you were out there in the cold." He's calmer now, his voice less pitched and theatric than it was when he was darting around the apartment. "Besides, like I said, it's not everyday you can have tea with an angel."

"I'm not an angel."

Christian laughs. "Well let's see… you're blonde, _beautiful_, and you have wings. You landed on my roof, it seems, from Heaven itself. What else would you call yourself?"

"A mutant."

The man on the couch darkens a little. "Come sit." He pats a spot next to him.

"I can't." Warren admits rather sadly. "It hurts them to sit."

"Then you may sit on the arm of my couch, or you can pile some cushions on the floor. However you'd be most comfortable."

"Really?"

He scoffs. "Well certainly. What kind of host would I be if I made my guest sit in a way that bothered him?"

Warren moves to the arm of the couch opposite to Christian. Without much effort he climbs onto the arm and sits on it side-saddle. His wings are left comfortably half-opened.

"I see you opted to go without the shirt." Christian remarks, playing at the edge of his tea cup with a finger.

"I didn't want to cut it."

Christian shrugs. "Well you won't he a peep out of me in the negative."

They're both quiet for a moment.

"Thank you." Warren says, looking down at his hands. "For, you know, the tea and everything."

"It's nothing." Christian sips his own tea again."You're more than welcome to stay the night, Warren. My bed is pretty big, so you're wings should be comfortable. I can take the couch."

"I couldn't."

"And why not?"

"You've already… and… you do understand that I'm a mutant. I'm not an angel. I didn't come from heaven. I am a mutant and if people see you with me, see me here…"

Christian holds up a hand. "Stop."

"But…"

"I'm not an idiot. I know you're a mutant."

Warren keeps his head down, eyes on his hands "I'm sorry. I wasn't implying that you…"

"I know you're a mutant, and I don't care, alright?" Christian scoots a little closer to Warren, moving his hand up to the younger man's chin and lifting it so as to meet his eyes. "Mutant you may be, but you're still a person; a person who needed a little warmth and good cheer. Who am I to turn you or anyone else away because they're different than myself? I've seen too many people in my life--beautiful people like you--turned away, unloved and unwanted, purely because of something beyond their control. Biology is biology, no matter how you slice it."

Warren wants to look away, he wants to crawl into a dark hole and not have to meet Christian's gaze. He's ashamed. He's scared. He's unaware of how to cope with this sudden flood of warm, unrelenting, acceptance. It's not something he's experienced before.

"So," Christian continues. "If I say you're an angel, well then, you're an angel, darling. Nothing to it. You understand? Human, mutant, well… they'd be daft to call you anything else."

The winged mutant cries. He wrenches his chin away from Christian's soft grip and hides his face behind a hand. He doesn't like crying. His father always told him it was weakness.

Warren will cry for only a little longer. Christian won't say anything. He'll sit next to Warren and pat him on the shoulder from time to time. When hedries his eyes, apologizes embarrassedly, Christian will tell him it's ok. He'll tell him sometimes crying can be better than anything else in the world.

Warren will agree to stay the night, and in the morning, he'll wake up to find Christian, already dressed and devoid of his pink bathrobe, making pancakes and French toast. They'll have breakfast. The rain will clear off sometime in the early afternoon.

Before Warren leaves, Christian will dig through his closet. He'll give him some nice sweaters, nice pants, a new pair of shoes, and a long brown coat: _I won't wear them, and I'd much rather you have them than that tacky thrift store down the way!_

He'll make the younger mana sandwich: _Lord knows when you'll get a decent meal._

Christian will give Warren his number and make him promise to call when he's found someplace safe and gets on his feet. He'll make Warren promise to call if he's ever in San Francisco again.

Warren will try to thank Christian, but he'll feel awkward. He won't know how to pay back the man for his kindness. Christian will laugh it off and send thehimon his way.

Christian will walk Warren to the bus, wave goodbye, and return to his apartment.

He'll wash his towels and make his bed. He'll find a feather on the floor in the bathroom--long and creamy white. Christian will put the feather on his coffee table, but will not tell anyone how he came by it. No one will ask.


	6. The Lake

_This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. I finished it at 6:30 in the morning, after a long night. If there are any spelling or grammatical errors, please report them in a comment and I'll fix them in a subsequent draft. Your help will be very appreciated._

_I hate to make all of you my proofreaders, but I really wanted to get the new chapter posted._

_That said,_

_Enjoy,_

_--P._

* * *

Eric throws another rock. 

It sails several feet before hitting the water, bouncing off, hitting, and then bouncing again. It skips a total of six times before falling haphazardly into the glassy lake surface. Eric watches the ripples clear before he looks down at his feet for another flat stone. The lake is quiet and deserted and enchantingly beautiful. Thick bands of the tallest pine trees the boy has ever seen close in on the shore from all sides, allowing no wind to get through. Its surface only stirs when Eric throws a stone or a nearby kingfisher dives into the shallows.

Behind Eric, from the direction of the highway, Sarah shuffles through the bushes. The arched bone growths along her spine and shoulders catch on the brush as she passes, forcing her to move slower and weave to dodge the branches.

"How'd you get through here?"

"There was a path." Eric says, not bothering to look behind him at the voice.

"Didn't see it." Sarah grumbles, untwining some pesky vine from around one of her spires.

"It was there." Eric states, stooping to grab a rock. He sends it flying out over the water like the ones before it.

"Nice." Sara remarks, coming to stand beside him on the shore.

Eric doesn't reply.

"They're ready to go."

Again, Eric doesn't say reply. The ripples on the surface of the water die away. The boy moves a strand of his black hair out of his eyes.

Sarah pokes him with a finger. "Are you still with us here on Earth, kid?"

Stony. "Yes."

"Well, I don't think they're going to wait very long. We should probably head back to the road. Magneto got what he came fore."

"Did he? And what did he come for?"

Sarah pauses. "Something wrong?"

"No."

"Are you sure, it seems like something's bothering you."

"It's nothing." Eric breathes, tone low and--it seems to Sarah--a lot heavier than she's heard the boy speak before. Usually, if he says anything at all, it's a quick and quiet utterance of his general state (_I'm hungry, could I please have some food?_) or an attempt to cheer her up.

Eric turns on the woman, the tempered blue of his eyes meeting and overpowering the soft brown of hers. "There's nothing wrong, ok! I'll be back at the road in a minute. Just leave me alone!" A ripple emanates from the center of the lake, causing the stones on the shoreline to rattle as a flotilla of tiny waves crush against them.

Sarah takes a step back. She feels the strong need to say something, anything, but instead does not. She lowers her head and walks heavily back through the brush and brambles. When she's within the trees, Sarah stops and looks back at Eric.

"If I did something, you know, to make you mad. Well… I'm…" It feels strange to Sarah to try to form the words she feels a great and sudden swell to say. Usually, if someone yelled at her she'd impale them with a jagged length of bone, kick them, and then walk away. She doesn't back down, not like she just did with a relatively tiny mutant boy she could have easily ripped to ribbons. "I'm sorry, ok? If I did something to upset you, you know?" Sarah pauses for a moment, waiting for a reply. She gets none. Dejectedly, she leaves. The sounds of her retreat disappear.

Eric returns to looking at the lake. He's not mad at Sarah, and he makes a note to talk to her later, make it up to her in some way. He's considers the woman a friend, closer than any friend he ever knew in school, and she's only been in his life a millisecond.

However, the feelings inside him eclipse his usually unbreakable shell of propriety, even to the point of needlessly hurting Sarah. Eric is not upset at his friend.

He's upset because he is confused. Eric has had his entire belief system come unraveled in a single afternoon. Seeing Magneto kill innocent people hurt him. Hearing Sarah and her friends laugh at the destruction made him sick.

Conversely, the seeing the guns loaded with weaponized cure made him terrified, and then finally, horribly angry. Eric does not hate humans because he does not see the difference between them and mutant kind. However, Eric hates the humans that would want to change the very person he is.

Murder is wrong in Eric's mind, but now, he can completely understand how someone could be driven to murder in such a situation. He was horrorstruck at Magneto before, but now, he wonders why. Was it because he thought those men were innocent?

Is anyone really innocent?

All of the days realizations are tearing the boy apart.

Softly, so softly that Eric didn't hear him coming, Magneto walks to the shore and looks out over the water. He's side-by-side with the boy now, devoid of his peculiar helmet, but still swathed in his imperious black cape.

"A lot has happened." Magneto states, still gazing out at the lake. "I'm usually a lot more prompt and formal with my introductions to people, but in the case of you, I didn't even have time to catch your name before we had to be off. Now it all seems… well…moot, I would say."

With the boy as his side not answering, Magneto turns his face away from the water to look down at the black haired youth. "I'm sorry you had to see all of that." He offers, expression thoughtful. "I don't particularly like forcing such sights on the young, but, if you're to be part of the coming future, it's probably better that you saw what you saw."

Again, silence reigns between the two. Eric bends down to get another rock; Magneto watches curiously. When Eric sends the stone out across the water, the mutant general speaks up again. "That scarf you're wearing is rather unique."

"It was my aunt's"

"A response, we're making progress." Magneto jokes, face creasing into a smile. "Where is your aunt now?"

Eric's breath catches in his throat as he begins to speak. He manages to say the words. "She's dead."

The older mutant places a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry." His sentiment is genuine, not that Eric would know otherwise.

"She was human."

"And did she know about you?"

Eric shakes his head. "I never told her, but she knew. She never let on that she knew… but she did."

"You lived with your aunt, then?"

"Yes. She was sick." A pause. "I took care of her until…"

The rocks on the water's edge begin to hiss again as another seamless ripple passes over the surface of the lake. Magneto catches it out of the corner of his eye, but is more concerned with the boy at the moment. "You don't have to say anything else. It was rude of me to bring it up."

Eric's voice cracks. He sucks in air but the words fall out in a torrent before he can build up the force to stop them. "I fell asleep, I didn't go and get her, I didn't wake her from her nap! It's my fault! I let her die!" With every word, the boy's voice raises in pitch and volume.

Magneto opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself staring beyond the boy, at the now tempestuous scene. Thrashing violently, waves on par with the open ocean send torrents of water up and onto the shore. Magneto's shoes and the bottoms of his black slacks are soaked, but Eric is untouched.

The boy has stopped screaming, bit he's crying now.

"You have an amazing power inside you." Magneto soothes. "You understand that, don't you?"

Eric shakes his head, staunching his crying and returning his face to the mask it was before. The last of the large waves hits the shore; the lake becomes still again. "I don't know what to do."

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to go home… but I can't."

Magneto wraps his arm around the boy's shoulder fully, turning him away from the water's edge. "You can have a new home. It will never be like the one you left, but it can be good. I can teach you to develop your power. You can use it to defend your right to live."

"I don't want to hurt people."

Magneto shakes his head. "No one ever truly does, but sometimes it's the only way."

"There is no other way?"

"If there was, its time has long since passed."

Eric nods. They walk towards the trees and eventually the highway. Finally, Magneto breaks the silence.

"What is your name?" He asks. "You know mine, but I'm afraid I don't have the pleasure of knowing yours."

"Eric."

"I happen to like that name."


	7. The Cataract

_In regards to Only Human's comment(s):  
The tense change at the end of the chapters has been intentional since the second chapter. In fact, the sixth chapter was the first chapter to end without a tense change, other the the original one-shot first chapter. Chapter seven follows in the vein of six, in that it ends without the tense change. As you'll see, it's to keep in with the mood of the chapter's end. As far as the body of the chapters go, I prefer to write--in a dialogue heavy story like this one--in the present tense. I'm a playwright, and past-tense sometimes throws me for a loop. I'd rather write present-tense well than past-tense shoddily._

_Thank you so much for taking the time to review so often, and in such detail. It was really helpful of you. I don't want this to come off as a sort of retort, rather than what it is meant to be: an explanation of my actions. I've never professed to be a genius at the craft of writing. I'm still learning a lot._

_Again, thank you._

_--P.

* * *

And so..._

_I'll admit to everyone that the sixth chapter may have a little bit of problems with flow and dialogue. I rewrote it four times from four different angles, and I still did not get all the emotion and bits of story into it that I wanted to. I may yet go back and rewrite it again, but I needed to get something posted to continue with the story._

_I'll be going back to earlier chapters and trying to clean up some of the minor spelling mistakes and squished sentences. Fanfiction has a terrible tendency to--if you edit your document in their editor--squeeze your edited text together into one long sentence. (example: intoonelongsentence)_

_That said, I'm still insanely grateful to everyone who's read, reviewed, and liked my story so far. You guys are great!_

_Enough chatter from me,_

_Enjoy!_

_--P. _

* * *

The scene today is much the same as yesterday, Emma thinks. She wonders if the protesters have something else more constructive that they could be doing. It's not that she doesn't think their criticisms are worthwhile, she simply dislikes having to dodge thrown trash, insults, and the like on her way to work. 

_If that I had the luxury to stand outside and bitch all day,_ Emma thinks. _But as it stands I have to work. _

The alley to the back of the clinic is completely swamped with people, so Emma has no choice but to enter the clinic through the front door. It'll be a tight squeeze, what with the line and all, but it won't be that much trouble. Emma is more concerned about having to walk up to the front door. This puts her in full view of the mob. Though, after a night of rest, she's a lot more spry than she was before. She lets her mind branch out, sweeping over the crowd and analyzing them, feeling their actions, their intentions. Emma would love for someone to try something on her today. It'd be a lark to see some poor dolt spill his soda all over his neighbor. Then they could _really_ have a riot.

She's laughing quietly to herself when she feels it. Rage. Arrogant rage, like a plume of flame, billowing in the center of the picket line. Emma stops. Someone in line yells a slur, throws a wad of paper at her, but Emma doesn't notice. So much pride, self-assurance, animosity… she knows what he's going to do, this mysterious elemental hatred.

"Who are you?" She asks; her lips don't move. They don't need to.

_None of your business._

"Don't." She begs him softly. "Please don't."

A red-hot tongue of fire rockets past Emma. Had she been a foot closer she would have been incinerated instantly.

"No!" Emma screams, but there is nothing she can do. The stream of fire connects with the wall of the clinic, shatters the windows, and forces itself inside with a motion that defies what the eye would believe fire capable of. An explosion sends Emma sprawling on her back. Her purse flies from her grasp, she loses one of her white high heels, and a chunk of blonde hair falls down out of the tidy bun it'd been in.

Sitting up, Emma gazes in horror as the clinic erupts into flames. The picketers scatter in fear. The police that had been working the line race towards the clinic, but there's nothing they can really do. Patients and staff--humans and mutants--stream out of the decimated main entrance, some covered in fire and wailing in pain. Their minds cry out, and Emma has to shut them out in order to keep her wits about her. Smoke and bits of ash begin to seep out over the street. She stands, bringing a hand to her head and trying not to topple over. The fall has stunned Emma, but she's not injured. She can do something; she _must_ do _something_.

And then she hears the laughter.

She isn't hearing it really. It's not physical laughter. It's not sound. It's the burning, pompous glee she'd felt moments before the clinic erupted. It's the attacker. Emma can still feel him. He's close, running away.

Emma Frost kicks off her remaining white shoe and, reaching down, tears a slit in the side of her otherwise constricting white skirt. _What a shame, _she thinks It was her second-favorite one. Pulling at her bun, Emma releases her curtain blonde hair and gives it a rather hurried shake. A police officer is beside her now, taking her shoulders in his hands and trying to guide her away from the fire. "Ma'am, we have to get you out of here."

"Help the others." She says calmly.

"I'll help the others." And he leaves her to her own devices.

Emma clears her thoughts, reaches, branches out past the screaming and the pain. She feels him, the heat. He's still running, but slower. His pride won't allow him to bolt; to make a spectacle. "There." Emma breathes.

She's off.

Emma runs past the police, past the stampeding protesters, past the onlookers too stunned to move or speak. She ignores the pain of her bare feet as they power her down the sidewalk. Emma runs past stores, past an old lady with a shopping cart. She strains to jump over a fallen trash can, dives past oncoming emergency personal responding the chaos behind her. Emma is breathing hard, but she closes in on the assailant like a heat-seeking missile. At fifty yards she can practically taste the self-assurance cascading off of him. At twenty yards she can see the back of his head as he ducks into an alley.

He's walking calmly away from her when she steps into the alley.

At this range, Emma can sense his every thought, every morbid bit of satisfaction at the injuries, the deaths, and the outright catastrophe he's caused. Her fist clenches. "Stop!" She yells, chest rising and falling heavily.

He makes as if to turn, but Emma's hand snaps up, fist unfurling. The assailant falls to his knees; he vomits.

"You…" Emma advances on the prone individual, her eyes flashing with unrestrained anger. "You… _bastard_."

"Go to hell!" He snarls between heaves.

She's standing over him now. "What did you say?"

"I said go to--" The assailant is cut off by his own screams. Twitching and writhing in pain, he falls completely onto the alley floor at Emma's feet, clutching his head.

"I know everything about you, little St. John Allerdyce. I know your past, I know your fears, I know what you beat off to at night… I know who you love. I know who you hate. I know who you pretend to hate..." Emma's voice never raises above a soft hiss, but the sound of her words ring deafeningly in Pyro's mind.

He wails. "Stop it! Argh! Get out of my head! Get out!"

"A God Among Insects?" Her lips twitch, she smiles."Oh how you latched on to that, suckled at it like a greedy little beast. You ate it up, and you know why? Of course, you arrogant little shit. You'd never admit it to anyone, let alone yourself. You'd never admit to being afraid, being weak, being pathetic…"

Pyro stammers, saliva dripping out of the corner of his mouth. "Stop it! Stop it, please!"

"I bet you were one of those kids who tortured ants with a magnifying glass just to watch them burn? I bet with your powers you've never even known the sensation, the horror, of being truly hurt by fire, have you?" Emma plants her foot on the boy's stomach, cinching him in place as he squirms beneath her. "Allow me to give you a gift, John."

Emma's eyes roll into the back of her head. She strains, opens her mind as much as she can. Two blocks away, she can still sense the devastation caused by Pyro's attack. There are still people trapped inside the burning building. There are still people lying pained in the streets. Emma takes their anguish, their suffering, and channels it through herself, directing it down tenfold upon the boy beneath her foot.

"Do you feel that? Do you feel _everything _that you have done? Those were innocent people, you worthless little bug! You _insect!_ They had friends, families… _Can you feel their pain?_"

Pyro can't answer. He can't even scream. He twitches beneath Emma, eyes wide and staring. Every so often he makes a gurgle or a wheeze. There is too much explosive agony for the body to even react. It shuts down. The boy's mind, however, explodes with activity. It hurls out information, locked memories, and dreams in some desperate last-ditch attempt to fend of the telepath. His brain shudders beneath the crushing weight of Emma's psychic hold.

She's ready to kill the boy.

That is until one fleeting bit of information makes her stop. Her hold lessens, the pain fades. Emma releases Pyro completely and backs away. "My God."

She leaves Pyro in the alley. She leaves him lying in his own vomit and excrement, broken and defeated. He's unconscious, possibly emotionally scarred, but otherwise completely unharmed. The boy is beyond lucky. Emma leaves, but not before relieving Pyro of his cellular phone. Hers, unfortunately enough, had been in her now-missing purse.

Walking down the sidewalk--shoeless, hair mussed, skirt torn--Emma Frost punches numbers frantically, placing a long-distance call.

It rings twice before a male voice answers. "Hello?"

"Chris?"

The voice on the other end sounds pleased. "Ah, Emma darling. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Christian, listen to me, you have to leave San Francisco."

He laughs. "Dearest sister, you've been telling me that for years. I have roots, you know? It'd be like transplanting azaleas in mid-bloom. Besides, the strangest thing happened to me the other night. I met someone, and you'll never guess--"

Emma cuts him off. "Something terrible is going to happen."

* * *

_ps._

_I do not own X-Men. I'm making no profit from this._


	8. The Plunge

_I don't own X-Men, yeah, etc... _

_I was unsure if I should do this chapter or not... but now that it's finished I'm really very pleased with it._

_Enjoy,_

_--P _

* * *

The band onstage, a fiddle and acoustic guitar duo, starts to pack up their things. They've played their allotted time. 

Alison takes one last sip from her tall iced mocha before placing it back down on the table. "I'll be up next." She says to the man across from her. Alison's voice is clearly nervous, but her eyes portray excitement. She has jitters, but there's no way they'll hinder her now.

The man reaches across the table to take her hand. He holds it, but it's not a comforting grip. He's keeping her at the table. "Ali."

"Let go, David."

"Ali, don't."

She meets his eyes. "I have to."

"Why?"

Alison pulls her hand away from his grip. She doesn't have to fight. The man hasn't the fortitude to truly stop her. She uses her newfound freedom to pull the blue scrunchie from her wrist and wind it in her mess of sandy hair. Once that's done, she looks back to David. "Look good?"

"You always look good."

"Thank you." Alison checks her blouse, white with pretty blue and gold stars embroidered along the sleeves. It's eye-catching, flatters her figure, but is not-at-all overdone. She answers the man's earlier question. "I really don't know why, David. I just have to. The song came to me. It won't let me sleep. It won't let me be until I perform it. It's just something I have to do."

"It's just going to cause trouble."

"It very well may. Do these jeans go with my top?"

"They're fine." David says with a sigh. "Are you listening to me at all?"

"Are you listening to me? I have to sing this song."

"These people don't care. They don't care about politics, they don't care about anything like that. They just want to sit, drink their coffee, and listen to some nice music. That's all."

Alison shakes her head. "Art--music--is expression, babe. If they weren't prepared for my expression, they should have stayed home."

"See there you go." His voice is clearly annoyed now. "You have to throw it in everyone's faces, don't you? We couldn't even go home for one visit without you telling my whole family at the dinner table."

Alison manages to stay cool despite David's annoyance with her. "We were announcing our engagement. Do you think I want to be a part of your family without them knowing who I am?"

"Why can't you just be Alison? Why do you have to be Alison _the Mutant_? You throw it in everyone's faces like you're trying to get a rise, like you want attention."

"Why should I have to hide?" Alison stands, pushing in her chair. They haven't called her yet but she doesn't want to sit with David anymore. She doesn't want to upset herself further before her turn on stage. "There is nothing wrong with me. I am not a pariah; I am not freak. I am happy with who I am, and thusly, want people to know."

"But that's not what people want to know--"

She cuts him off. "Don't. I'm going to sing this song and that's that."

He's looking up at her. "Sit down, please, just sit down."

Her composure starts to fray. "What are you so damned afraid of, David? Afraid that this whole coffee shop, this _big_ _important_ coffee shop is going to judge you for dating a mutant, for being engaged to a mutant? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I love you Alison."

A man walks on stage and takes the microphone from its stand. "Show some love to Ginger Peach Tea, they're regulars here for Open Mic Night at the Java Lounge." The audience of fifteen or so applauds, some giving unobtrusive whistles.

"You love me?" Alison asks.

"Yes." David says, clearly exasperated .

The man on the mic continues. "Alright, now we've got the lovely folk stylings of Alison Blaire. She's making a name for herself, and she's sure to dazzle you if you let her. Come on up, Ali." The man nods in Alison's direction

"You love Alison, but do you love Alison _the Mutant_?" With a quick and precise motion, She removes the engagement ring from her finger. "I'm going to sing this song. If you're still here when I come off stage… well then, I'll put this back on." Alison bends down so as to hand the ring to David. She kisses him once, touches his face, and then backs away. She picks up her acoustic guitar. "Otherwise consider yourself off the hook, babe. Find you a girl who hates herself." She walks towards the tiny stage at the front of the room.

A few of the patrons clap when Alison sits down on a stool and strums her guitar, checking the tuning. The songstress regards them with a smile and a quick finger wave. Once she's satisfied with the guitar, Alison pulls the microphone down to her level. "Check? Check? Ok, super, we're green. Super green?"

Someone in the front row catches the joke, replying with a high-pitched. "Super green!"

"Alright, some of you know me, some of you don't. I am Alison Blaire. I live right here in scenic San Francisco, and I love Java Lounge." She pauses; looks around; grins. "There, now that I'm sure that I've pleased at least one person in the house…"

The audience laughs at this.

"…let me start by saying this is probably the most personal song I've ever done. Came to me in a dream, took me forever to nail, but I hope you like it."

Alison strums her guitar once, plays the opening chord, plays the intro. The song itself is slow and mournful, but the chords register strong, defiant in despite their melancholy. She completes the intro, inhales, and begins tenderly singing into the microphone.

_How can you pretend  
That you are now my friend  
That everything you do is understanding?  
_

_How can you pretend  
Without standing in my skin  
That I am afflicted with a kind of cancer?_

_I am not your broken dream  
I am not your mistaken code  
I am not the one you need to fear_

_How can you call, friend?  
And how can you pretend  
That you don't want to see me cured?_

Alison looks out over the audience, past them, to the table where she and David talked before her song. He's gone. Alison closes her eyes. She knew he wouldn't be there. _Damn,_ she thinks wistfully_. He's going to miss my finale._

Alison takes an instrumental break, exploring the variations on the theme of her song, feeling the delicious tones her guitar flow into her. Her skin tingles. She feels the notes, the sound itself, sink in and energize her muscles. She takes in as much of her guitar's resonance as possible without muting it completely. The act of taking in so much energy like this always makes her feel giddy: euphoric.

But it's nothing compared to the release.

_Why is it a cure  
And how are you so sure  
There's something wrong with what's inside of me?_

_I am not your fault  
I am not your future  
I am not the one you need to fear_

Alison knows she's glowing. When she takes in sound, when she stores it like she's doing now, she always glows. She concentrates, she changes the shade. She lets her emotions guide her gift. She lets the song dictate the way her illumination manifests.

She let's the stored sound energy out, her body converting it into bioluminescence.

Opening her eyes, Alison's view of the audience is obscured by the tiny floating masses of blue and purple light that slowly orbit her.

Some move in unison, some move alone, but they all follow the gentle command of her guitar. Alison continues her song.

_How can you pretend  
That this cure is my godsend  
When you're the only one who seems to care?_

_I am your little girl  
I am your daughter  
I am your wife  
I am not the one you need to fear  
I am not the one you need to fear_

The song ends. Alison pulls one last chord from her guitar, there's a brilliant flash, a snap and crackle, and the lights fade away. Alison glows for a few more seconds before her skin slowly darkens back to its normal color, devoid of luminescence.

"Thank you." She says cautiously into the microphone.

A few minutes later, Alison sits on the curb a few blocks down from the coffee shop. She'd been completely aware of what could happen when she took to the stage, and she wasn't shocked when the first of the boos came.

_At least I got to finish_, Alison thinks to herself, running her fingers over the top of her guitar case. _They heard the whole thing. That's something._

She's not mad. She knows that acceptance takes time; takes effort. It's a choice between morals and the desire to be loved. There is no in-between. Alison could very easily write songs that pleased every person. She could perform them, ignore the feeling of bliss that comes when she releases her lights. Alison could make a nice living performing locally, never revealing the fact that she is a mutant. She could marry David. She could be plain, simple, Alison.

But Alison is Alison _The Mutant_. Her morals will not allow her to remain quiet. Her spirit will not allow her to live without glowing.

She's not wrathful, she's not vindictive. Alison does not demand reparations and she does not hate human beings. She just wants to be seen. She just wants to be noticed, accepted, and then, if there is time, Alison wants to be loved.

Footsteps register in Alison's ears. She turns in time to see a young woman walking up the hilly sidewalk towards her. "Miss Blaire?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry, I don't want to bother you. I saw you perform in the Java Lounge."

"You're not bothering me." Alison says with a polite smile.

The woman starts to speak, but her voice cuts out and she starts to cry mutedly into her hand. "I'm sorry." She mumbles. "Oh this looks so stupid."

Alison stands. "What's wrong? Was I that bad?"

"No! No not at all!" The woman protests, trying to dry her eyes. "You were wonderful. I cried all through the second half of your song. I must seem like such a tit."

"Oh don't say that. I cry all them time when something moves me. I'm just… well… a little surprised I moved someone to do something other than boo."

The woman shakes her head. "You're so brave. I could never have done something like that."

"Are you…?"

"Yes." The woman says. "I'm a mutant."

Alison opens her mouth to say something to the woman, but a tremor passes beneath her feet. A rumble issues somewhere up and over the hill. She looks around.

The other woman speaks first, visibly shaken. "What was that? Earthquake?"

"No." Alison says, feeling the sounds of a hundred footfalls slowly wash over her skin. She can hear them before they even come over the hill. Alison can sense the army's voices, their cheers and shouts, before the other woman can audibly pick them out. "We need to go."

Alison snatches up her guitar; she and the woman run back down the hill towards the Java Lounge as the first wave of mutants crest the hill.


	9. The Flood

_I do not own X-Men, however, Eric Wasser is mine.  
Enjoy,_

_--P._

* * *

From the top of the hill Eric can see the bay, the island, and the bridge slowly hovering over the water in a motion that causes the eyes and brain to jarringly disagree. He lags behind as the other soldiers around him race downwards and descend on the blocks between them and the water. 

Sarah walks up beside Eric, clapping him on the shoulder. The sensation causes him to twitch. He's still staring at the bridge.

_In the new world, will there be no place for things of beauty? Or are they not beautiful simply because they were built by human hands?_

"You ready?" Sarah asks him,

Eric nods.

"Magneto, Callisto, and the others are on the bridge. They've got a small force with them, but it's not going to be enough to take the compound. They want me to lead the second wave in after the bridge is in place."

"And I go with you?"

Sarah shakes her head. "No."

"What do I do?"

"You're going to be with the group that stays on this side of the bridge. Magneto anticipates a counterattack from behind and it will be your job to stop them."

A sharp noise to Eric's left makes him turn his head. A large-bodied mutant has crashed through a shop window and is pounding the store owner into the floor. The man's screams abruptly stop. Eric turns his attention back to the bridge as it moves closer to the island. He feels sick. He's aware of Sarah guiding him down the hill.

"This is important." She says. "If a counterattack comes from our rear, there'll be no escape. Magneto won't haven enough strength to reroute the bridge a second time."

Eric nods, but he's not really listening to Sarah. He can't concentrate for the sound of the screams and breaking glass around him. The mutant soldiers--if they could be called soldiers--have gone wild with destructive glee. They kept their cool for a while. They marched into town hidden under cloaks and heavy coats, relatively unnoticed. For most of the trip through the outskirts, they managed to resist the urge to pillage, to attack humans on sight. However, with their goal of Alcatraz and Magneto's avenging Golden Gate Flagship on the horizon, what composure the mutants had is gone.

"Eric?" Sarah notices that the boy has stopped walking. He's at least two steps behind her and not moving. "Come on. When the bridge drops we're going to need to be in place."

"What are they doing?"

Sarah looks around at the others. She and Eric were walking down the middle of the street in a straight path directly to the sea. The others, however, have spread out over the sidewalks and into buildings. They've lit fires and toppled cars. Sarah is not quite sure how she missed it all. "They're…"

"They're killing people."

"Just humans." She walks back up the hill towards he friend. "This is a war, kid. It's not going to be pretty. Besides, It's Worthington's fault for putting his factory so close to such a big city. He's damned his own people to die with his ignorance. And pretty soon, it won't even matter."

_In the new world, without humans, who will we demonize?_

Eric doesn't look at Sarah. He's still watching the bridge. "What happens after we destroy the cure?"

"We win."

"What do we win?"

Sarah growls. "Look, we don't have time for this now! Come on." She snatches Eric's hand and starts dragging him down the hill. A car smolders and catches on fire as the two pass. "I know Magneto hasn't had much time to teach you, but he has faith in you kid. You're power is the strongest of anyone who'll be staying on this side of the bridge. You need to keep your head."

"What if I can't?"

"Don't think like that. You can. You will."

When they get to the edge of the water, the bridge has already been laid. Sarah mentally kicks herself for not hurrying, but there's nothing she can do now. In the blink of an eye she scales an abandoned van at the very lip of the bridge.

"Listen up!" She roars, addressing the mutants that--by now--have left their marauding and arrived at the base of the connection to Alcatraz. "You have your orders and you better keep to them! If you're staying here, stay the hell here! Don't get any funny ideas about coming over the bridge and leaving this side unguarded! If you're with me, then you better not get any funny idea about chickening out! Otherwise I'll cut you myself." Sarah reaches behind her, rips a sword-like length of bone directly from her spine, and shrieks a blood-curdling battle cry that makes Eric shudder involuntarily. She raises the bone weapon over her head and screams: "Charge!" The mutant soldiers shriek in reply.

They surge past Sarah's van and begin their rush across the battered Golden Gate Bridge. She makes to leap down and join them, but Eric is clambering up the side of the vehicle, and before Sarah knows it, he's clinging to her.

"Watch it kid!" She snarls. "I don't want to hurt you…"

"Sarah!" His face is buried in the soft part of her shoulder, a place devoid of bone-growth. "Be careful."

She's still pumped; still ready to charge into the fray and tear people apart. She's really more Marrow now than she is Sarah. Still, the armor-clad woman runs a hand through the boy's hair. "Don't worry about me. I'm going to be just fine. That is, unless I sit here talking all day and don't lead my troops."

Eric backs away from her; nods. He can't meet her eyes though.

"You still scared to be here by yourself?" She asks, reaching out and fixing the boy's long blue scarf.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She finishes tightening the scarf around Eric's neck so he won't lose it. She has no idea why she does; she has no idea why she performs her next action either. "Here…" Marrow says, and with a slight gasp of pain, rips one of the bone spires from her elbow. "Take this. You'll be fine. You're tougher than you think, kid."

By the time Eric takes hold of the dagger, feels how surprisingly light it is, Marrow is already off of the van and half-way to catching up her battalion. In a few moments she's passed them and is leading the charge once again.

Eric turns around and climbs down from the roof of the van. Sixty or so mutants are milling about the base of the bridge, but they're not really saying anything. Some of them sit down and wait. Others stare off in the direction of the island. Eric doesn't have special senses; he can't imagine what they must be seeing, hearing, even feeling with their mind.

He's concentrating, trying to see down the length of the bridge when the first of the sirens reaches his ears. Within moments, police squad cars are barreling down the hill and Eric can't help but feel a slight tinge of panic. One of the mutants beside him begins to belch out a deep throaty laugh, saying something about 'pathetic reinforcements.'

The police park a block away. They fan their cars out and take up positions behind the vehicles, using them as shields. A man with a bullhorn starts to make demands. "Mutants, all of you put your hands on your heads and get on the ground. If you fail to comply, we will open fire immediately! You have this one warning!"

The throaty man beside Eric gives another laugh. "Let's have a little fun before the _real_ reinforcements show up." Stepping forward, he bellows an order to his fellow mutants: "Break 'em in half!"

Eric remains standing at the cusp of the bridge. He watches the ensuing bloodbath. The police manage to kill one mutant. They wound at least a few before they're completely overrun. Outgunned and outnumbered, they are in fact ripped apart. Eric looks away, feeling the same sickness in his stomach as when the shop keeper was killed earlier.

_In the new world, will there be no place for law? Just because you can rip someone in half, does that mean you should?_

When the soldiers return to the bridge, they're in much better spirits. They laugh and make jokes. The throaty mutant notices Eric standing, back turned, off and away from the crowd. The man shuffles over and grabs Eric's shoulder with a rough hand. "You're still a little wet behind the ears, ain't you boy?"

A bit of blood soaks into Eric's shirt; he can feel the dampness on his skin. It makes him want to throw up. It makes him want to scream.

"What's wrong? You don't speak?"

"Don't… touch me." Eric hisses through clenched teeth. Those same teeth are suddenly snapping together as he finds himself forcibly spun around.

The man is glowering down at Eric now. "What'd you say?" The boy does not meet his gaze.

_In the new world, will the brutes still pick on the feeble? Magneto says that human beings are bullies; cowards that prey on the weak. There are cowardly bully-humans, yes… but so are there cowardly bully-mutants…_

Eric's jaws clatter together again as the larger man shakes him gruffly by the shoulders. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

In a flash, a memory from Eric's childhood comes back to him. It's brief, nothing more than a bit of conversation between his five year-old self and his now dead aunt.

He forgets why she said it, and what the story behind it was, but for the briefest of moments Eric hears Pearl speaking: "Just because someone is an adult, it doesn't always make them right."

To a five year-old it was a very profound statement, but had been lost to other memories as the boy grew older. It's resurfaced now.

Eric's brain clicks.

_Just because someone is a mutant, that does not make them a good person. _

The throaty mutant is growling now, his face a clear indication of his anger. Slowly, Eric moves his eyes, turbulent and startlingly blue, to meet the beady black of the larger man's. They stare into each other for several seconds, neither moving or backing down

Eric speaks. "Let go of me." The command is calm, but unyielding.

"Make me!"

"Alright."

The throaty mutant starts to laugh, but is quickly cut off. He winces. The man hadn't noticed the bone knife that the boy had been clutching in his hand, but he notices it now that it's buried in his throat. He manages to gurgle once before falling to the ground.

Eric doesn't look at man he's just killed. He doesn't want to. He's not especially proud and he doesn't want think about his actions any more right now. Besides, the other mutant soldiers are staring at him.

The boy wipes his hands on his jeans. He reaches up and readjusts the scarf around his neck. With one hand, Eric moves his black hair out of his eyes.

"Why did you do that?" One of the others demands.

Eric clears his mind. Magneto told him to find the center, find the feeling beyond emotion, beyond the chattering of the outside world. They'd only practiced once. There was no time for anything else.

"Traitor!" Another mutant screams, her nails growing longer and more talon-like. "Traitor!" She chants, "Traitor!"

The other soldiers strike up a traitor chorus, their various weapons being drawn or summoned. The mob advances a step. Eric doesn't move. A pale blue light is issuing from his eyes, but the vengeful marauders don't seem to notice. If they do then they don't seem to care. Chanting, the mob continues to advance on Eric.

Eric lifts his arms, stretches his hands in front of him--palms out. Magneto said for Eric to feel it with his mind. Feel the swells, the currents--the tide itself. "Your weapon is the lifeblood of the planet." Magneto had said. "You'll never be without it, no matter where you go. You're a primal force of nature."

The bridge moans softly, waves lashing at either side. The water below has turned to froth.

In just on session, the two of them sitting alone at the edge of the forest camp, Magneto had told Eric everything he'd ever need to know: "You must remember, never to demand anything of the ocean. It is far more powerful and wise than you or I could ever hope to be."

Eric does not dare demand. He asks.

He asks the sea to rise. He implores the water to defy laws that have held it for millennia. He requests the liquid tendrils reach into the sky like twin blue serpents. He begs them to twist, flow, and arc into the air above the bridge itself. Eric wills thousands of pounds of water down like a dragon onto the advancing mutants.

The ocean complies.


	10. The Depth

_Sorry for the delay on this chapter, hopefully the next won't take as long. I honestly wanted this one to take place before "The Flood" but... I think it works where it is now._

_Enjoy,_

_--P. _

* * *

Christian stands leaning against the kitchenette's entryway. "The tea will just be a minute." 

Emma nods. She seems distant, as if listening to something very far away. She doesn't look at Christian from her position on his comfortable couch.

He grins. "Oh Emma, this really is spectacular. It'll be just like a slumber party. You know, the kind we never got to have when we were kids."

Emma's brow furrows. If she was distracted by something before Christian spoke, she isn't anymore. "This isn't a game, you twit. I'm not here to play house with you." She looks back at her brother. He's still smiling. "What?"

"Nothing."

The tea kettle begins to sing, causing Christian to dance back into the tiny kitchen. The sound dies away and a new noise--the clattering of dishes--is heard.

"I'll take cream and sugar, nothing else thank you."

In a few moments Christian walks out of the kitchen with two cups of tea, steam curling up slowly from the surface of the liquid. He sits beside Emma on the couch and hands her a cup. "Cream and sugar, nothing else."

"Thanks." And she blows at the tea.

"I still can't believe you're here." Christian has ignored his tea and is looking at Emma, face still split by a wide smile.

"I still can't believe that you didn't listen to me." Emma retorts coldly. "Then again, you've never been one to plan sensibly in the face of such things."

"And you are sensible?"

Emma straightens up, throws her shoulders back a bit. "As a matter of fact I am. I'm not the one who ran off to San Francisco at sixteen to become a painter."

"Well, staying behind and having father throw me into a mental hospital to 'cure my sickness' wasn't that appealing. You'll have to excuse me."

She sighs. "There were other options, Chris."

"Oh, and what were those?" When she doesn't answer, Christian nods knowingly. "You can't think of any because you would have done the same thing."

"No I would have not"

"Oh yes you would. You would have run off because all of your prim rationality is just a façade."

She scoffs. "Façade?"

"Yes." Christian punctuates perfectly with a sip of his tea; pinkie out. "_Façade._"

"Well that is just absolutely--"

He cuts her off. "A truly rational person would not have flown across the United States in a day on a wild hunch."

She doesn't argue. He's right, really. A truly rational person would not have chased down a terrorist and made him beg for mercy in an alley. However, one could not be rational all the time. Emma was--emotionally at least--only human. She still go angry; she still got upset at the thought of her brother being alone in a city under siege. "It was more than a hunch." Emma states, eyes narrowed.

"Be that as it may, I'm fine, I'm in one piece, and the city of San Francisco is in no real--"

Christian does not get to finish his proclamation. A violent explosion somewhere down on street level causes his apartment to vibrate. Emma grips her tea cup tighter, but is completely unperturbed by the blast. "Oh my, whatever could that have been? Perhaps a giant _hunch _attacking the bay area?"

Setting his tea hastily on the end table, Christian stands. He looks--Emma thinks--like a rabbit preparing itself to run, but not quite sure in which direction it wants to go. "What was that?"

Emma, calmly. "Sit down."

He doesn't comply. Instead Christian heads into his bedroom, and in a few minutes, returns with a baseball bat.

Emma laughs, nearly spilling her tea. "Oh my God, you still have that thing? Whatever do you use it for? Don't tell me _you_ play baseball?"

"Stuff it, you. I could play baseball."

She laughs again. Christian glowers at her, moving to stand in the middle of the room, the bat held in an attempt at good form. "What? What's so bizarre about me playing baseball?"

"Oh nothing." Emma manages to stop laughing after a few deep breaths. "It's just when father tried to make you play as a child, you'd be in the outfield picking flowers while everyone yelled at you to get the ball." Emma again tries not to laugh, snorts, looks horrified, and then erupts into laughter again.

Christian would still be glaring daggers at his sister had she not snorted, but that sends him into his own fits of mirth. "Did you just do what I think you did?"

"No!" She feigns absolute horror. "I'd never."

He's about to say something when another jarring explosion sends Christian leaping onto the couch, clutching the bat for dear life. Emma again tries to stow a snicker, this time without a snort.

"Why are you laughing?"

"I hate to say I told you so…"

"Then don't!"

Emma sighs. "Oh come now, calm down."

Another explosion goes off outside, albeit, a little further away. Emma wraps her arm around her brother and pulls him close. They curl up together on the end of the couch. "I'm sorry if I seem uptight."

"What?" He seems to have forgotten their argument before.

"I always admired you for running away."

"You lie."

"No, not at all. I always thought it was incredibly brave. I was just upset that you left me alone with father."

Christian sighs. "I wanted you to come with me."

"I wouldn't have done it."

"I know."

She smiles. "But wouldn't it have been fun?"

Christian nods. There's another explosion, no closer or farther than the last. Emma feels her brother wince and holds him a little tighter. She's missed this since he went away. They kept in touch, they called on holidays, they even saw each other at their parents' funerals. However, Emma has missed this kind of contact with her brother. They were like this as children, never too far away from one another. If Christian had a nightmare, Emma would know and she'd comfort him when he woke up. She was the first person Christian came out to and the last person he spoke to before he left.

"What do you think they want?" Christian asks softly, head rest on Emma's shoulder.

"They want to destroy the cure."

"And how did you know this was going to happen?"

Emma sighs. "I must just be psychic."

"You always knew where to find me in hide-and-seek…"

She laughs. "That's because you were a terrible hider. I mean really, behind the drapes?"

Christian shrugs. "What can I say? I loved drapes. Still do."

"I'm sorry I never told you."

"Don't worry about it."

Emma looks down at her brother. He's curled up, knees tucked under him like a child. "I wanted to tell you before you left, but it got stuck in my throat. Ever since… there just wasn't a right time to say it."

"I know how that can be."

Emma sighs again. Christian pokes her softly in the stomach. She flinches. "Stop that."

"I knew. I think I always knew you were just like me."

The apartment building vibrates again; another explosion. Down on the street, human soldiers with cure weapons, a regiment coming to Alcatraz's aid, mop up the few marauding mutants that didn't meet at the bridge.

The explosions stop; Christian falls asleep on Emma's shoulder.


	11. The Rush

_Nothing much to say this time other than:_

_Thanks again to all of you who've read my story; double-thanks to all of the reviewers! Everyone has been so nice and this is--without a doubt--the best Fanfic I've written so far. It would not be such a success without all of you guys. I feel like I gush all the time, but it does mean a lot to me.  
_

_Enjoy,_

_--P._

* * *

Marrow tenses. 

She's watched him fight and she's watched over twenty of her fellow soldiers fall dead on his blades. None of them were a match. Those that did manage to land a blow only angered him more. Marrow knows the man is fast. She knows he heals faster than she does, quite a feat considering the woman's supercharged metabolism.

Marrow's fingers tighten around the bone daggers she carries in each hand, blade down like some sort of assassin. She's watched him and she knows how he'll react. If Marrow runs in from behind, hands raised to strike, the man with the claws will disembowel her. If she attacks head on, his claws will rip her daggers apart, break her defense, and he'll tear her to pieces.

_I need to do this quick._ She thinks. _He heals faster, but there's no way he moves faster than me. No one is faster than me. Move in. Cut him. Cut him until he can't be cut anymore. No one can heal when they have no more blood left inside._

She sees her chance. He's turned, eyeing the steel man as he finishes pounding a few more of Marrow's comrades into the ground. She's upwind. The sounds of the battle block out the noise of her footfalls as Marrow launches herself forward, gracefully clearing rocks and covering yards of ground in barely a moment. She hurls the daggers in her hands with sinisterly accurate aim.

Wolverine doesn't notice the blades until they are buried in the backs of his knees. He sinks to the ground with a howl of pain and rage.

Marrow is above him now, two new bone knives already wrenched from the supply on her back. He's at her stomach level, still facing away from her. Before Wolverine can turn to look, the armor-clad woman pulls his head back and slits his throat twice, from two different directions. There's an arterial spray and a sickening gurgling sound.

A roar causes Marrow to look up from her carnage. The blue-haired beast man is diving towards her, claws and teeth bared.

"Fool!" Marrow sneers, and uses her victim as a springboard. She backflips well out of the attacking beast's range and sends the bleeding man flopping painfully onto the ground at his feet.

"Young lady," The beast rumbles from deep in his chest, standing protectively over his fallen colleague. "You will _sincerely_ regret what you have done."

"Hold on fur ball."

Marrow hisses. Wolverine is already rising to his feet. The blood has stopped flowing from his neck and he's cracking his knuckles. _You knew it would be more difficult than that._ She reminds herself.

"We should take her together." the beast purrs.

Wolverine shakes his head. "This one's mine McCoy."

"But--"

"Sit this one out, damn it."

Marrow inhales deeply, concentrating on her body. She feels the skin start to split painfully around her knees, shins, and ribcage, plates of bone pushing to the surface and forming rows of flexible armor over her vital organs and ligaments. "Better listen to him, fleabag. You'd hate to end up a rug, wouldn't you?" She snarls through clenched teeth. A thick slab of bone juts out from her brow, shielding her eyes like a knight's visor and sending a trickle of blood down Marrow's face.

"She's all yours." The beast concedes, turning away from Logan and redirecting his attention to Marrow's brethren.

Wolverine cracks his neck with a quick and confident motion. He still hasn't drawn his claws. "You wanna do this right, or you wanna keep on playing dirty tricks? It's not very nice to stab people from behind."

Marrow arches her back, preparing herself for what's to come. "Sure… since it's just you and me, let's do it the old fashioned way--gah!" She can't conceal a scream of pain as four pairs of wing-like spires spurt from her shoulders and back. Flesh and fabric rip apart as the woman's forearms become razor-lined weapons unto themselves.

"Just like a woman to spend an hour getting ready before a fight."

"Come on then!" She snarls, looking like some horror from an H. R. Giger creation.

With an ominous metallic _SNIKT!_ Wolverine extends his adamantium claws; he takes a fighting stance, claws up, body slightly turned. The man's eyes are locked on Marrow's. "You lead, darlin'."

Marrow charges, a bone dagger flying out at Wolverine's face before the man even sees her draw it. His claws move; he blocks, and the dagger shatters on the indestructible metal, but Marrow is on the ground, sliding like a baseball player towards the man's exposed underside. Dual kicks to his knees send him down to her level, and Marrow throws herself upwards as Wolverine falls. The spires on her back catch at his exposed flesh and tear his face apart.

He roars in pain and sends a claw outwards, it buries itself in Marrow's shoulder, easily cutting through her armor like soft brie.

"Bastard!" She howls.

"Bitch!" Is his reply.

The combatants separate in a flash, leaving identical trails of blood in their wakes. Marrow holds her shoulder, feeling the bones knit slowly--impossibly slow considering the blinding speed at which Wolverine's face is closing up, hiding the exposed bits of adamantium skull.

"You go for my knees one more time…"

"And what? I'm going to regret it?" Her shoulder isn't healed. It would take an hour to be at top condition again, and she doesn't have an hour. However, it's healed enough that she can ignore. She can ignore the pain enough inflict it back tenfold on her opponent. "You're pathetic."

"I'm not some madman's pawn."

"The daring are always mad in the eyes of the weak!"

He chuckles at that. "Pointy and poetic, you've got it all don't you?"

Marrow grins. "You'll find I'm full of surprises."

It's Wolverine's turn to attack, moving in on the woman feinting to the left and then lashing out with a sweeping lateral strike aimed at her wounded shoulder. Marrow steps back, brings her wounded arm up, and blocks his strike; her bladed forearm meeting the soft flesh of his. There's a shriek of pain from both of the warriors. Wolverine makes to dig his claws into her chest, but she catches his neck with her hand, finger bones lengthen with a snap, and she pulls back a handful of flesh.

A kick to the gut sends the man, sprawling and bleeding, falling to the ground yet again. He can't speak. She's ripped out his vocal chords. The minor victory comes at a price to Marrow, however. She's certain her shoulder is dislocated now. Popping it into place helps, offers some relief, but the arms is only going to get worse and she has an obvious handicap now.

Wolverine spits up blood, his neck closing and chords returning. "You… are so… dead…"

Marrow slings a dagger his way, but he blocks it with a claw from his seat on the ground. Wolverine stands, blocking another one of Marrow's thrown daggers.

"That all you're gonna do now? Scared or something?"

She roars, "Shut up!" and charges Wolverine again, leaping high into the air. "You don't know anything!" There's blinding pain in her shoulder, but Marrow ignores it. While in mid flight she rips the two longest and sharpest bone sabers from her back and brings them down with all the fury of her might and gravity combined. With a jarring collision, the swords bury themselves in Wolverine, stopping only when meeting the metal surrounding his bones. He bellows in pain again, almost losing his footing.

Marrow coughs once; chokes back a sob. She's landed fully on the man's claw. It's fist-deep in her chest.

Both fighters are still standing, locked together by their weaponry. Slowly, Marrow's grip on her bone sabers loosens. She lets go, sliding off of Wolverine's claw and sinking to her knees at his feet. She looks up, her vision is swimming; she could be tearing up.

The man steps back, pulls the sabers out of his body, steadies himself, and in a few moments he's not even bleeding anymore. "You did good." He says, his voice completely devoid of its earlier mockery. Wolverine's face is placid, eyes soft, as if he's looking at a friend. "You did real good, darlin'."

"You… shut up." Marrow breathes, but only barely. She can hardly manage anything other than a slow hiss afterwards. She tastes the iron of her own blood and feels the heat of it leaving her mouth. Marrow coughs again, sputters, and falls backwards, her bone spikes keeping her in a somewhat sitting position. Her head rolls backwards; eyes on the sky.

Wolverine sheathes his claws and turns to rejoin the fight with the others. Somewhere overhead he can hear Storm stirring up a tornado. In the distance, he can hear the clanking of Colossus's fists.

"I'm… sorry." Sarah chokes out. "I'm sorry I kept… hitting your knees."

"S'alright. You had your reasons."

"I don't hate you…"

"I don't hate you, either." He sighs. "We've all got to do what we think is right."

Above her, Sarah sees the moon and the stars. Every so often a cloud--summoned by the weather witch--passes over, but those clouds quickly dissipate and the moon returns. It feels to Sarah like she stares up at that impossibly beautiful sky for days, but in truth it's only a matter of moments. Her vision wavers--she can feel her eyes growing heavier.

Something shimmering and white catches her attention, and as the corners of her vision fade to black, Sarah can just make it out. It's an angel, beautiful and blonde, flying directly overhead. She smiles. It seems funny to her that he'd still come, even after all the pain and suffering she'd caused; all the death. It seems funny to Sarah that an angel would still come to take her home. The pain in her chest turns into a subtle sting; then, a glow. "He's beautiful." She whispers. "He's so beautiful."

Wolverine walks over; he looks down at the woman. Her eyes don't focus on him. "What'd you say?"

"I wonder... would he recognize me?" Barely any sound leaves Sarah's lips at all.

"What are you saying?" Wolverine kneels next to her.

"Do... you think I'm pretty?" Her voice wavers, threatens to give out.

Wolverine looks at her boney brow; the sharp spines protruding from her collarbone and shoulders. He runs a gloved hand through her short red hair, thinning in places where the bone plates protrude through the hairline. "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever fought."

"Thank you."


	12. The Bay

_I had to write another chapter.  
I don't own X-Men or anything like that; I make no profit._

_Enjoy,_

_--P. _

* * *

"Don't drop me!" 

"I'm not going to drop you." Warren states, voice almost dead. He doesn't look at his father. "I wouldn't drop you."

Below the two, far below now that Warren has climbed to a safer distance, the battle continues to rage. Brilliant flashes of red light and muffled explosions dot the island. Every so often a lightning bolt will seem to form out of thin air and illuminate the fog and shadows.

Mr. Worthington cringes, trying to hold on tighter to his son's shoulders, over which he's now haphazardly draped by one arm. "How horrible. I don't even know what happened to Kavita…"

Warren pumps his wings, entering a slow-spiral climb that lifts the two higher above the island. From this height, the moon looks enormous, it's pale surface a perfect match to the winged mutant's plumage. He doesn't match his father's sentiment for the possibly late Dr. Rao. She was a nice enough woman, but her intentions and practices left a cold spot in Warren's heart.

"How much higher… how much higher can you go?" Mr. Worthington asks, his gaze directed at the shimmering bay and (now tiny) battle-torn island below.

A tinge of bitterness. "I don't know. I never really got a chance to fly before this week."

Mr. Worthington doesn't say anything else, not even when his left shoe--part of an expensive pair he wishes he hadn't worn today--slips off and falls towards the water below.

"Hold on, ok?"

"What are you going to--"

Warren tucks his wings back and dives towards the lights of the city. The white feathers become a blur as his father's voice becomes a shrill and pleading cry in his ear. He pays it no mind. Warren has a good grip and if he dropped the man at this altitude he's is pretty sure he could catch his father again without much effort.

"Why are you doing this?"

"It's faster than flapping."

The wind whips through the winged mutant's hair, sending it backwards into upswept spikes of blonde. His father's tie unravels and is lost over the city as they careen onwards at over sixty miles per hour.

"Do you even know where you're going? How can you see at night? Warren, slow down!" Worthington's veins are bulging on his neck as he tries to scream above the wind. His eyes are shut, too scared to look at the world flying by.

Warren flares his wings with a violent whooshing noise, suddenly halting the dive. A few of his primary feathers fall out from the strain, but it's nothing serious. He shakes his father for emphasis as he speaks. "If you say one more word, one more, that demeans the fact that I saved your life and am now ferrying you to safety, I will leave you at the top of the highest building I can find!"

"Warren I…"

"I don't want to hear it!" It's the most anger and outright defiance the mutant has ever showed his father, other than the day he jumped out of the office building's window. "You are probably one of the most hated men in all of the world right now, try to show a bit of gratitude."

The older man's jaw remains open in surprise at his son's sudden development of spine. They fly onwards for a minute or so more before Warren speaks again, voice back to it's usual semi-quiet tone. "Ok, I'm sorry I yelled. I know where we're going and I can see fine because of the lights."

The man nods.

"And… I'm sure there's some people that don't hate you."

Another nod.

Warren narrows his eyes. "Nuns or something."

Worthington smiles slightly, even though the joke was directed at his character. This is the most he's directly spoken to his son in years; the most of his son's personality he's seen in years. "Is it… hard to do?"

"What?"

"Fly?"

Warren raises an eyebrow at his father. "Why do you ask?"

"It looks hard to me, like it would take a lot of concentration." He tries as hard as he can to keep his tone polite, still not sure how his son would take such question. Worthington's curiosity is sincere, however, and he means no insult.

"It's… well… it really isn't at all. I can't explain it. It's like the knowledge to do it has been inside me all along, I just never got a chance to know it until I was on the wing."

"That's my fault, I suppose."

Silence.

"Well, it _is _my fault. No supposing about it."

Warren stays silent, unaccustomed to someone as powerful as his father admitting guilt or admitting he was wrong.

Worthington looks away from his son and out at the city, at the cars below, at the passing orbs of the streetlights underneath his feet. He looks at his shoeless left foot, the argyle sock exposed and somewhat clown-like in appearance. Worthington thinks to himself how ridiculous he must seem. Here he is--a pudgy graying man, missing a shoe and his tie--sailing above the city of San Francisco, fleeing from a war of his own design (however unintentional). He's in the debt of his son's wings, the same wings he tried to strip him of just days prior. Now he's admitting he was wrong, too late after the fact to look like anything more than a fool.

Worthington thinks he must look incredibly ridiculous indeed.

He's still musing to himself when his feet touch down on the tar and gravel roof of some building. "We've stopped?"

"Yeah."

"What is this place?" Worthington looks around. The roof is empty except for a single raised glass skylight. A soft glow shines from the interior.

"It's safe. My friend lives here." Warren folds his wings along his back, tries to straighten his windblown hair, and steps nimbly to the edge of skylight, tapping at it with a knuckle.

Worthington looks out at the city again. It has a sort of calming presence. The sounds of sirens prevail now that he's closer to the ground and can hear them, but it's almost as if the city has no idea there's a battle going on offshore. Worthington wonders to himself if it's too late to take it all back, to start over. It'd be simple to stop producing the cure now that his main lab was all but destroyed. His company wouldn't suffer--it has other endeavors and investors. He could issue a statement of apology.

It probably wouldn't be enough, though. At least he was a alive. At least Warren was alive.

"What do you want?" A harsh female voice issues from the open skylight.

Warren steps back, a little surprised. "Um… is Chris… this is Christian's apartment right?"

"Who wants to know?" A blonde woman with sharp blue eyes and a rather perturbed look on her face sticks her head out of the skylight. It takes her a moment to notice Warren's wings, but when she does, her face softens. She almost smiles. "Well, the little twit was telling the truth."

"What?"

"I'm afraid Chris has gone to bed, darling. You'll have to call on him some other night. He'll be sorry he missed you though. I'm certain of that." Her eyes hold a mischievous glint makes Warren a little nervous.

"Are we going to have to leave?" Worthington asks his son. "Where would we go?"

The blonde woman blinks at the sound of a new person. "Who is that?"

"My father."

"Oh wow that's fast, parents so soon?" She successfully holds back a wry laugh.

"Emma, what the hell are you doing up there?" Christian's voice barks from the interior of the apartment.

"Nothing, Chris." She remarks drolly. "It's not like you'd be interested in random angels showing up on your roof."

"Oh you're such a bitch, I told you that in confidence." Christian's head pops up beside his sister's. His brown hair is mildly disheveled in a way that makes him look more youthful; he's rubbing one eye. Now whenever you want to stab me in the heart you're going to stick your head out of my skylight and say--" Noticing Warren, Christian's expression metamorphoses into shock, then well hidden glee. "…hello Angel."

"Can we come inside, I'm missing a shoe." Worthington bemoans.

Christian looks to Emma. "Who is that?"

"Ethel Merman, I don't know." She throws her hands in the air and descends into the apartment again. "I'll put the tea on," she calls. "See if you can't coax them inside."

Christian smiles pleasantly up at Warren. "I'm afraid I fell asleep in my clothes, so, you won't get the pleasure of seeing me in my bathrobe tonight."

Warren shrugs. "That's ok, I forgot to get soaking wet and take my shirt off on the way over."

"I'll forgive you that."

Worthington looks around confusedly. "Warren, what's going on? Who is that person?"

"May we come in?" Warren asks, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness. He's still not used to the idea of imposing. He tells himself that's why he's nervous.

"My house is always open to you, Angel. You know that." Christian moves down out of skylight, allowing the winged mutant entrance. "But next time, leave the old man at home."


	13. The Millpond

_Sorry this chapter took so long to get put on the site. The past month has been really crazed. I had to move out of my apartment because of a leak in my bedroom, and then I got sick for a week. This IS NOT the last chapter, and I'm sorry it's so short. I hope to write more soon._

_Don't lose faith in me folks!_

_As always, thanks to reading... and enjoy!_

_--P. _

* * *

Eric looks out over the island as the fog descends. Magneto disappears. Pyro stops launching fireballs and engages a mutant that Eric himself doesn't recognize. In a moment they're lost in the fog as well, only Pyro's glow visible in the mist. 

Eric doesn't know what to do.

Minutes earlier he'd been on the opposite end of the bridge, standing in complete shock at the massive amount of destruction he'd just caused. Now he's on the lip of the island end of the bridge wondering desperately where Sarah has gone to. She's the only reason he's still around, and when he finds her they're leaving the island together. That's that.

A small bit of movement in the corner of Eric's vision causes him to turn his head. A few feet away, a mysterious woman in red stands like a scarecrow on a high outcropping of bridge debris. Eric recognizes her as the woman who arrived with Magneto a few days before the attack on San Francisco, however, it occurs to him that this is the first time he's ever truly looked at the woman. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't even know her name.

She's looking directly at Eric, eyes vast but certainly not vacant. Her expression is unreadable.

"She's down there, two yards from the wall of the building." The woman says, her voice almost lost in the sound of the wind.

"What?"

"Your friend. She's down there."

"How do you know?"

The woman's lips almost move; almost smile. The expression is wholly Jean and devoid completely of the destructive emotion of the Phoenix inside her.

The boy doesn't know her; doesn't know her power. He's scared, but not of her. To him, she's not a weapon or something that needs to be controlled. She's not a fiancé, an object of love, of sexual desire… she's not a friend, not a foe. She's not Phoenix; She's not Jean. She's a random, almost total, stranger on a bridge in the middle of terrible conflict.

To Jean it's a comforting thought.

She's read his mind--his entire life history, every emotion he's ever felt--in the span of a millisecond and he doesn't even know. He's just a boy, a scared, confused, and fundamentally lost boy.

Jean Grey smiles. "You've come a long way, haven't you?"

Eric doesn't know how to respond. Silence passes between the two on the bridge.

Jean continues. "You've come a long way, met a lot of people, seen a lot of things. It's all so… big."

Eric nods.

"And now this." She looks out over the battlefield. "You're scared?"

"No."

Jean cocks her head, returning her eyes to the boy. The tilt of her head causes the current of her fluttering red hair to shift slightly, like a river of blood. "You are." Something inside her makes her add. "It's ok to be scared. Sometimes I'm scared."

"What's going to happen?" Eric doesn't know why he asks.

"I don't know." Jean lies.

"Magneto is wrong. The humans are wrong. Everyone is wrong. I don't care anymore. I don't care about fighting, I don't care about being normal or different… I just want to go home."

"You don't have a home."

Eric looks down. "I know."

Jean harnesses the psychic maelstrom raging just beneath the surface of her mind long enough to impart a suggestion to him: a single vision of children, students; a man in a wheelchair behind a desk teaching a class on British literature; a school; a home.

Eric's eyes tear up. He starts to cry openly as the residual bits of emotion--of love--in Jean's memories flood over him. He doesn't know the people in the; he doesn't recognize the faces. However, Eric instantly loves them. He instantly wants to be with them.

Jean smiles completely. "Home."

"Where?"

"You'll know." She says.

"Who are you?" Eric asks. He's still crying; he can't stop. He doesn't want to stop. Years and years of tears unshed are coming out now and he doesn't know what to do.

"I'm everything." Jean says. "And nothing."

There's more silence between the two. Jean breaks it.

"Go to her."

"Come with us." Eric offers, taking a step toward her. He manages to staunch his tears for now. "You don't have to stay here and fight with them."

"I know." Jean says. Her vast eyes move over Eric meaningfully for a moment before going vague, as if looking past him. She cocks her head again.

Jean can feel in the distance the flickering sensation of a hundred tiny minds; soldiers. They'll be here in moments.

The boy reaches out, puts a hand on the woman's shoulder, bringing her back from distraction. Beneath his fingers he feels cloth, and beneath that, her flesh and bone. He has a sense that, beyond the space of her skin, Jean goes on forever. He has a feeling that if he were to fall into her, he'd never touch bottom again "Come with me."

"I can't." Jean says sadly. Eric doesn't argue.

He removes his hand from the woman's shoulder. There's a brief sensation of warmth, a tingling, left on his skin. It dissipates quickly. "Will you be ok?"

"I will."

The boy takes a step away from her and towards the fog. Somewhere out in gray Magneto makes a pained noise. There's sounds of a struggle. "Where did you say she was?"

"Towards the wall, you'll find her." Jean will guide him if he gets lost.

Eric looks back over his shoulder. On the high mound of debris, the woman in red looks almost serene. "Thank you." He tells her.

Jean nods once.

Eric moves into the fog.


	14. The Torrent

_I am so sorry for this chapter taking so long, but as is so often the case, a lot of things came up in my life. I got swamped, and this story got put on the back burner. Fear not, I am not done with the characters in this story yet, and there are just a few chapters left until completion. It will not remain unfinished, and there WILL be resolution.  
_

_Until then, enjoy._

_--P._  
-------------

First she is only aware of the pain, a blistering ache in her chest. It started like music, like a violin in the distance, waking her slowly from a dreamless blackness. Then gradually, past the rising pain in her body, other sensations come to the surface of Sarah's mind. She feels a coldness in her bones; a dampness on her skin; all around is the pervasive smell of brine; something hard presses into her back. 

Sarah opens her eyes.

At first there is only darkness with bits of blurry light bouncing hazily in and out of her visual range. Several blinks and she still cannot see. Worse yet, something stings her eyes and makes her inhale sharply; the inhalation causes her chest to blaze in agony.

Now completely frustrated, Sarah firmly opens her eyes once more. Her vision clears, and she is met with the sight of water. Carefully turning her head, the young woman can tell that she is beached, and from her position on the rocky shore she can just make out Alcatraz in the distance.

It lurks like a lumpy ghost, rising just above the inky water of the bay, and still connected to the mainland by the uprooted Golden Gate Bridge, which itself is now teeming with moving lights; soldiers, no doubt.

She remembers everything: the battle with the Wolverine, the misstep caused by letting her anger get the better of her, the blow to her chest which is giving her so much trouble now. Sarah even firmly recalls the angel circling overhead. She was so certain that the curtain had finally gone down on her life. What happened?

Her survival of Wolverine's attack could be attributed simply to the fast rate of healing her intense metabolism afforded her. Sarah is nowhere near as durable as the clawed mutant himself, but with enough time, even she can survive a near-fatal wound without so much as a scar to show for it. Still, how in the hell had Sarah gotten off of the island and onto the shoreline in one piece?

She tries to sit up, anxious to get a better look and confused about her current location. The attempt is made futile however, when the pain in Sarah's chest reprimands her harshly, and forces her back into a half-sitting position against the rocks.

It's during this attempt that she notices the shape--that of a young man--standing in the water a few yards offshore. This alarms Sarah because, in her current injured state, she's significantly more prone than she ever would be in top form. Regardless, she grits her teeth and hoists herself into a fully upright sitting position. _Damn the pain,_ she thinks. _I didn't survive that damned island to just sit back and be killed._

The figure remains in the water, back to the shore, unmoving. It's when the woman braces herself into her upright position and takes a more lasting look that she notices the figure isn't standing _in_ the water at all.

He's standing _on_ it.

"Eric." Sarah whispers, the sound lost in the sea winds.

Something stirs, stretches, and burns inside her chest, down past the superficial pain of her wound. Sarah's throat tightens; her eyes sting.

"Eric." She calls, voice choked but still trying to rise over the pounding of the wind.

He doesn't hear her and remains facing away from the shore. He's watching the island. There's a flash of light, red like fire, followed by a faint explosion. Something crackles in the distance. Flames rise above the rocks on Alcatraz, casting the buildings into deep and expressive shadow.

The light becomes so intense that it illuminates the entire island, the bridge, the water, even the shore itself. Sarah's jaw hangs open in surprise, and she's suddenly very curious, very afraid. She looks to the water, to Eric, and sees that he's still standing on the surface, completely still except for the wind in his long blue scarf.

"Something's wrong." Sarah mumbles to herself, and wonders about Calisto, Magneto, and the other warriors on the island. Is this their doing? Something inside her tells her that it's something far worse.

"It's her."

Sarah flinches, then hisses at the pain the action causes her chest. Eric has moved and is standing beside her on the shore. He left the water, climbed the shore, and approached without her ever even noticing.

"Jesus, kid. When did you get so sneaky?"

Eric doesn't answer, remaining transfixed on the island and the fire that continues to blaze amid the rocks and manmade structures.

Sarah wants to speak again, but is at a complete loss as to what to say. The person standing beside her is fundamentally different from the frightened boy she left on the bridge at the onset of the battle. "Eric?"

"Yes?"

"What happened?"

Eric looks down at Sarah, his eyes glowing a soft blue that illuminates the area around his face. His expression is unreadable, the space behind the light of his eyes is vast. "A lot of things."

Sarah can't meet the unsettling blue of those eyes and breaks her gaze away from Eric. She watches the island instead.

"I shouldn't have let you go."

"Eric, we had… I had orders. I _had_ to go, you know that--"

Eric shakes his head. "But you're here, you're safe, and that's all that matters."

"What?"

"Everything that has happened is so hypocritical and stupid; unplanned."

Sarah scoffs. "What are you talking about? Magneto planned--"

The fire on the island shifts, and the sounds of another explosion ripple across the water and reach the two on the shore, effectively cutting Sarah off. The waves in the bay become more erratic, more wild. Twin tongues of flame flare out above the main structure of Alcatraz like the glistening red-orange wings of some predatory bird. The building begins to chip away like burning newspaper.

Eric sighs. "He didn't plan. He didn't see. He didn't think about anyone but himself; his stupid vengeance."

"He's not doing this for himself, he's doing it for mutants. For us. That's all that matters!" Sarah snarls.

"No."

"What do you mean no? You've seen what the humans do. You've seen their weapons. They want to change us, want to take away our freedom! They'd have us dead if they could! Why are you suddenly so goddamned spineless"

Eric's eyes stab downwards, the shock blue of the irises causing Sarah to recoil slightly, a mild tinge of fear coursing through her. "Being hated does not make hatred acceptable."

"What do you know about anything? You're just a kid."

"Even children have a basic sense of right and wrong." Eric replies.

Sarah makes as if to retort, but the great fire on the island catches her eye again. The fiery wings rise higher, forming the shape of some terrible creature in the sky above Alcatraz. The entire bay is covered in a brilliant light, blotting out stars and even the moon. Heat cascades outwards from the conflagration, and the two mutants on the shore can feel it even from the great distance. The water stops lapping against the shore and pulls back, as if preparing for a tidal wave.

Eric shakes his head. "She can't do that. No one can do that."

"What? What can't she do?" Sarah forgets the earlier argument, forgets even to ask who this mysterious 'she' is. She's terrified, but can't look away. The heat dries the water from her clothes and sucks the moisture from her skin.

The sea around the island begins to rise, forming a wall of water hundreds of feet high around the blazing shape in the sky. The topmost edges of the great water wall hisses into great founts of steam as the entire structure of Alcatraz erupts into flames, floating away as dust in winds kicked up by the firestorm. Even the Golden Gate Bridge itself starts to pitch violently, the steel closest to the island glowing red-hot.

"She can't do that… the ocean… I can feel it fighting and… she's so strong." Eric mumbles, the glowing blue of his eyes eclipsed by the light around him. He remains transfixed on the wall of water that continues to climb around and above the island. Before long, he has to look away. The light becomes too much.

Sarah has stopped watching as well, her face turned away from the scene and eyes closed tight to shut out the light. She's aware of Eric holding her, his arms around her bony shoulders, but she's too afraid to look. The heat presses down relentlessly.

"I'm sorry." Eric whispers to Sarah. "I'm sorry this is all wrong. I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm sorry."

She can feel him shaking and she wants to tell him that she doesn't blame him; she's sorry too. The fear of the moment, the seemingly imminent immolation, has stifled all anger, all indignation. Sarah fears for her life, for the life of her friend-- her only friend.

"I just want to go home." Eric mumbles, arms like steel girders around Sarah, pulling her to him. "I just want to go home."

"We will. We'll go home together."

In a surge, a shockwave of kinetic force, everything goes black.

"We'll go home together."


End file.
